Summary: It's easy to see their hometown hasn't changed. No need for the sun to find the way to the grit and smoke of city centre, the blossom and wind of the countryside, and the salt and shriek of the docks. But finding friends scattered and separated after years apart is much harder. Especially when one was captured by the grey hands of the fog.
Three chapters, BTT-centric, with pairings
A/N: This story has dark themes mentioned (for the most part) in the past tense. I'll label chapters with trigger warnings as they apply.
And if the fog never lifted
1.
Rain crawled, and levitated across the round window. Francis pressed his forehead to the cool, thick glass of the aeroplane and cast his eyes over the tilted landscape of his hometown. (Homecity now, he supposed.)
The weather was ghastly. The sun was wounded and setting as clouds swirled and loitered over the buildings, trees, and sea. Francis could see hardly anything. Just a bundle of faint and beckoning lights huddled in the centre and a couple others rippling outwards to the mouth of the docs. But he knew what was there anyway. If his hand could pass through the window, Francis guessed he'd have the right timing to drop his phone over Arthur's old apartment right about now…
Francis jolted away from the window and pressed a hand to his lips. Still, a breathy laugh escaped him, and he glanced down at the black reflection of his phone.
"You know guys, I would give my left arm to go back to the days when we didn't have these fucking smartphones," Gilbert yelled, slamming his beer onto the counter.
Antonio's giggles were slurred. He had half his face nestled in his arms. His cheeks bloomed pink. "Gil, what are you talking about? You're always on your phone."
Case in point, Francis smiled and pointed to the phone gripped tight in Gilbert's other hand.
"This?" Gilbert flapped the phone dangerously. His red eyes twinkled and he grinned; he always grinned when he yelled. "I hate this thing. Hate it. Hate it—GODDAMN IT!" Gilbert stood up, knocking his barstool to the floor.
Antonio and Francis laughed hysterically. Only Francis possessed the lucidity to record the event on his phone.
Gilbert spun around in drunk steps, spitting curses about Elizaveta, Ludwig, and Roderich. He finally faced Antonio and Francis again, pointing to them, phone in hand. "You know what my dream is? You know what my fucking dream is?" Francis could never forget how absolutely feline Gilbert's angry grin was. Like a silver cat from hell.
"No, Gil. Tell us what your dream is," Francis prompted. His laughs shaked the recording on his phone.
"My dream is to be able to throw one of these things to the wall after a bad text or bad phone call and not feel fucking guilty about it."
"Gilbert, you've thrown your phone before…" Antonio teased.
"I said throw it and not feel guilty about it," Gilbert corrected. He gestured aggressively to his phone with his free hand. "These things are stupidly expensive! I mean, who thought a smartphone was a good idea?"
"Get a dumb phone then."
"Come on, Francis," Gilbert rolled his eyes, now laughing too. "That's not possible anymore. But goddamn." He leaned against the bar and grabbed his beer. He held it high, eyes twinkling. "My dream is to be able to throw this fucking phone as hard as I can against my bedroom wall. Hell, my dream is to have a dozen phones to throw one after the other." He turned to Antonio and Francis and flashed a gleeful smile. "Like punching all the assholes in my life without getting punched back."
Francis thumbed the corner of his phone and looked back out the window. His lips stayed curled in a smile. He was happy to be home.
Home was a strange place to return to after three years away. Even sitting in the taxi at nighttime, Francis could sense the changes. It was a bigger place. Grown and taller. Fuller with strangers he had no history with, and empty with those he knew and left behind. Surely they're around still. Most of them. Antonio and Gilbert, of course. Arthur was a given. But probably the friendly baristas Francis liked to flirt with and the clothing salespersons Francis would argue with too?
The taxi turned in the roundabout and Francis spotted a new highrise—taller than anything else he'd seen. He looked at its architecture in wonder and blinked dumbly when he spotted a familiar logo. The T in a shield.Teutonic Cars. That was Gilbert's family's company: the same one he and Ludwig worked for. Francis knew the company was doing well and expanding, but living in South America for so long, Francis supposed he didn't realize just how well that meant. The building looked… glamorous.
"Looks smart, doesn't it?" the taxi driver commented, noticing Francis's prolonged stare.
Francis turned to him, quick to smile. "Yes, it does. How long has that been here?"
"Oh, I suppose… two years now? Teutonic's always in the news now if you look around. One of the best "up-and-coming businesses of Europe" to quote the magazines," he laughed.
Francis's eyes softened and he gave one last look to the shiny skyscraper.
Good for you, Gil.
The taxi turned into the area Francis knew much better: the series of apartments lining the back of downtown. It was where he used to live, once upon a time. He spotted his old apartment, yellow with light, several stories up. He wondered who lived there now. Francis was moving to a different place a little further down the street. The taxi parked in front of the smaller, more sophisticated apartment complex.
Francis was thumbing through his Argentinian pesos to find the right currency when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket.
"That'll be twelve Euros, please."
Ignoring his phone, Francis handed the driver his change and took his suitcase. He wasn't able to check his phone until he signed papers, received his key, and reached the inside of his new, swanky one-bedroom apartment.
Although Gilbert had been AWOL for three months because of some holiday/business retreat/mystery excursion, Francis still expected the text to be from him. Gilbert was the type to send prompt messages when it mattered, and hundreds more when it didn't.
But there were no messages from Gilbert. Surprisingly, it was from Antonio, who was possibly the worst communicator of the three—at his best, sending cryptic snapchats of people Francis did not recognize at all for several days straight before returning into disconnected oblivion.
However, tonight he texted:
Frannnyyyy are you back yet?
Antonio always texted like that, so whether he was stone-cold sober or blackout drunk, Francis had no way of knowing.
He smiled anyway, warmed by knowing Antonio was near, even if he lived quite a ways away now compared to the good ol' days. On the very edge of town, by the docks.
Francis replied: Just landed, darling ;) Want to meet for a drink at the usual place?
Francis set his phone down on the kitchen island and dragged his suitcase to his bedroom. It was… lovely. Like the rest of the apartment really. Sparkling, new, modern. Francis clicked his tongue and left the room. It made him uncomfortable somehow. Back in the kitchen, several messages awaited Francis on his phone.
Toni: Yaaaayyy the gang reunites! Francis, man, I have so much to tell you
Toni: But I can't make it tonight D: Sorry sorry sorry sorry
Toni: Actually, I have someone over right now. Been meaning to talk to you about that
Toni: He's glaring at me now actually. I might need to put down the phone soon
Toni: But hmu this weekend, amigo! Come by the boat and I'll take you for a ride ;)) She's freshly painted
Toni: Ok definitely have to go now. Getting lots of scary looks lol
Toni: But welcome back home! Can't wait to see u!
Francis smiled fondly, but he couldn't deny being disappointed. He wasn't one for spending nights alone and was hoping to find some sort of company upon returning home. He drummed his fingers on the counter and pushed his long, blond hair behind his ear. Francis glanced around him once more, taking in the expansive living room windows and sparkling hardwood floors.
He marched back into the bedroom and retrieved his best trench-coat from the packed suitcase. Francis would go to their usual bar anyway. He wasn't good at being alone and very good at finding company.
And, as Antonio was immortally recorded as saying during the dawning hours of post-Francis's twenty-first birthday:
"Fuck the pain away, that's my motto."
Francis was still functioning on bad aeroplane food, but even five minutes looking wistfully at the window of his favorite French restaurant - now renamed - didn't stir any appetite. His stomach was full with anxious butterflies and nostalgic sighs. Instead, he continued wandering down the sidewalk he thought he knew so well to the famed Beerwolfe bar: where he, Gilbert, and Antonio spent most of their most pinnacle friendship years.
It was an old building, tucked away a small side-alley, with a dilapidated, if not charming, outdoor patio for smoke breaks just beside the entrance door. Francis briefly closed his eyes, relieved to see at least this place was just as he left it: flaws, dirt, smoke, and all. Even walking into the building and being hit with the stench of beer and cider was deliciously wonderful.
Francis unbuttoned his beige trench-coat and walked to the bar. A few men and women were sitting there, but it was a weeknight, so there were still empty seats available. He perched himself on the barstool and fished out his phone; he decided to send out a feeler text to Gilbert anyway. Just in case Gilbert was tiring of being a mystery.
I'm at Beerwolfe if you care to join, darling~
Leaving his phone on the counter, Francis glanced at the sparkling liquor cabinet for anything delicious and familiar. Something caught the corner of his eye however, and he unknowingly turned to a familiar face.
"Oh my god," Francis gasped, a small smile creeping across his lips. "Arthur?"
Arthur - British, blond, red-faced Arthur - was standing behind the bar, dressed in shades of brown and grey. And he was glaring at Francis with wide, heated, and swirling green eyes. A receipt was in his hand, and without breaking eye contact with Francis, Arthur handed the receipt to another customer seated at the bar, and strode over.
Standing on what was surely an elevated platform, Arthur slammed his hands on either side of the counter, rattling Francis's phone, and snapped, "what the hell are you doing here, frog?"
Francis looked up at him, and although Arthur's fury was obvious, he couldn't help but keep smiling. Arthur was the first familiar face he'd seen in ages. "My darling! What a greeting," he laughed easily. "I could ask you the same question. Do you fancy yourself a bartender now?"
"Obviously," Arthur replied through gritted teeth. "What I want to know is why you're here. Shouldn't you be galavanting around Brazil, drinking tequila, and sleeping with strangers?"
"My dear, it's amazing how many things you can get wrong in one sentence." Francis cupped his chin in his hand and studied Arthur's face. A bit of four o' clock shadow, and a few new lines by his eyes, but still just the same. "I was in Argentina studying wine. Surely, you remember that."
"But still sleeping with strangers, I'm sure," Arthur retorted, and unceremoniously slapped a menu over Francis's phone. "Here. Pick your poison."
Francis picked up the sticky menu with delicate fingers and pursed his lips. "You know, Arthur, with the way you're acting now it feels like you're really intending to poison me."
Arthur flashed a brief, callous grin. "I suppose you're just going to have to take that chance now, won't you?" He left Francis to collect empty glasses on the other side of the bar.
Francis and Arthur had known each other since they were children, and always had a certain cat and mouse relationship. But Francis still hadn't expected Arthur to be quite so aggressive straight off the bat. After not seeing one another for three years, no less.
When Arthur passed by to deposit the glasses into the sink, Francis blurted, "Um, Arthur, dear—did I miss an important anniversary I'm not aware of?" Arthur's back stiffened. Francis tried for a joke. "Did your cat die?"
Arthur slowly turned around again, eyes still furious, but now obviously hurt too.
"Oh my god, did your cat actually die?"
"I don't have a damn cat, Francis!" Arthur barked.
Francis sighed. "Oh, thank goodness. I thought I was forgetting something."
"You are forgetting something, you enormous prick." Arthur stomped over, once again gripping the bar in front of Francis. He loomed over, waiting for Francis's reply. Arthur looked ready to lunge for Francis's throat.
"Uum," Francis searched side-to-side for an answer. He smiled meekly, "I'm sorry, Arthur. Maybe the jet-lag is clouding my memory. Can you give me a hint?"
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Monday. Seven days before you left for your wine trip." Arthur's hands quoted sarcastically around the words 'wine trip'.
It took a beat, maybe two. But when it dawned on him, Francis laughed nervously, and looked away as he threaded fingers in his hair. He wondered if anyone was watching them. It didn't seem as though Arthur cared at all. "Oh," he finally said. "I didn't think you remembered that."
"Clearly."
Francis peered up at him, trying to find some ground to fight back. It was as loose and untrustworthy as sand though. "Look, Arthur," he began. "I'm sorry we didn't talk after that night, but we were—we were both drunk, and silly, and," Francis paused so he wouldn't trip over the next words. "I was starting a sommelier course the next week, so I thought it'd be better if I didn't mention it."
"Bull- shit," Arthur deadpanned. "You didn't sign up for that bloody course until after we slept together."
Francis's eyes went wide. He did not expect his runaway past to be shoved down his throat so soon after returning. His stomach twisted in knots. He felt sick. And there didn't seem to be much use in trying to lie himself out of this; for once, Arthur seemed very certain about his attack. So all Francis could do was quietly ask, "who told you?"
"Your idiot friends. They got drunk here the day you left and kept shouting it," Arthur answered dryly. The anger was dissipating now. He sounded tired. Francis idly wondered how many times Arthur had rehearsed confronting him like this.
Francis groaned and rubbed his temple with one hand. "Idiot friends is very apt, you're right."
"Don't get too cocky. You're just as idiotic as they are."
Francis pressed his palms into his eyes. This was definitely not what he expected his first night back. Was he supposed to explain everything to Arthur now? Jet-lagged, confused, sick, and sober?
Shockingly, it was Arthur sighing now. And Francis felt a fleeting pat on his arm. "All right, I'm done attacking for the night. You can calm down."
Francis peered through his parted fingers and saw Arthur—not smiling really—but offering a less cynical frown instead.
Arthur tapped the menu. "Order a drink. Seems like you need one before you go home."
Francis perused the list carelessly. He didn't trust wine here. It was never any good, and now it would probably taste worse. "Just make me a double gin and tonic," he said.
Arthur shook his head with the tiniest of smiles. "You snob." And he left Francis, menu in hand, to make the drink.
Francis watched him go, and the sight reminded him of that Monday night he tried to forget. The truth was they weren't that drunk. Tipsy maybe, but it wasn't a good enough excuse. Maybe there were no excuses. Just explanations Francis didn't want to confront, and Arthur didn't have the opportunity to say. Or maybe they were just bored of being in their hometown for so long. That was what Francis kept telling himself.
When Arthur turned, Francis pointed his chin down to his black phone. No reply from Gilbert. He shouldn't be as surprised as he was. (Or disappointed.)
"I'm rather surprised to see you here alone," Arthur commented, setting down Francis's drink.
Francis took a sip before bothering to reply. He winced, fighting a cough. "You are trying to poison me, aren't you?"
"You don't get tonic privileges yet, wanker."
Francis half-expected Arthur to leave, but he stayed, apparently wanting to hear the answer. Francis stirred the ice cubes with his straw as he talked. "Well, Antonio's busy with a new lover I don't know about and—"
"Lovino, right? Or has it changed?"
Francis gaped at him. "You know? You? How do you know and not me?"
"There's the entitled prick I know. I was wondering where he went," Arthur rolled his eyes. "You've been gone for three years, Francis. A few things were bound to slip through the cracks."
"Antonio's been dating him for three years?" Francis voice rose to a shrill pitch.
"Jesus!" Arthur jumped, green eyes going wide. "No, not three years. I was only teasing. I think they've been dating for six months? Or seven? I only know because they used to stop by with Gilbert."
"Oh my god," Francis moaned. "Oh my god, you're right. My friends left me behind. They moved on and left me behind. I never should have come back. Oh my god." Francis sucked at his straw, pushing alcohol down even though it hurt.
"You're such a bloody drama queen, you know that? You just said Antonio told you about him. What was the point of him telling you when you were in Argentina? Were you going to fly back and throw him an engagement party or somethin—NO, they're not engaged. Christ. Get a grip."
"Dear god, what else have I missed? Pregnancies, sex changes… what other gossip don't I know?"
"You obviously think we're all far more exciting than we actually are," Arthur muttered. "Honestly, very little has changed around here."
Francis stared at him. "Have you?"
Arthur didn't back down, and stayed looming over Francis. His voice was cool as he promised, "I never change, Francis."
"I," Francis faltered, feeling his ears burn. He conjured up a magical laugh and stood straighter. "Well, at least there's always you, Arthur darling. My steadying light during these dark times." Francis felt the usual itch. Something he couldn't satisify with a scratch. He needed to go, go, go, go now. Now . What was he even doing here? He reached down into the pockets of his trench-coat, searching for his wallet. Arthur was still there. It must have been obvious, maybe even awkward, but Francis could always blame jet-lag.
"This one's on me, don't worry," Arthur said casually, already taking Francis's half-finished drink away.
Francis paused, and feigned another chuckle. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I feel like my journey has finally caught up to me. I should probably go home for the night."
Arthur didn't bother to turn around. His voice didn't even sound bothered, when he replied, "you do that, Francis. Stick to what you do best."
Francis was standing by the bar, one hand in his trench-coat, but couldn't make the next move. He wanted to ask what that meant, but his silence did it for him.
Arthur peered over his shoulder, one frustrated and faraway green eye pinning Francis in place. "Just run away like you always do."
Monday nights were ungraceful.
Tasteless was probably what Francis said that night, but three years later he called them ungraceful. Because that's how they were. Francis and Arthur. Childhood friends, graduated from college and in their twenties acting like carefree, careless teenagers with nothing better to do than hang out at a pub after work.
When Francis talked about home to strangers in Argentina, he often lamented about being so bored. So bored all of the time. It was just torture to live where he grew up, with the same people he grew up with.
But the truth he kept unsaid and smothered in his heart was that he was never actually bored. And he wasn't bored that Monday night. He couldn't say the same for Arthur with absolutely certainty of course, but he had a strong feeling Arthur wasn't either.
Being bored was just something you said. It was almost an excuse to see each other, because truly, they just wanted to see each other. And that Monday night happened after Francis and Arthur had been seeing each other more than the usual for them. Because it was as though when college ended a barrier between them had been shattered. A beautiful, protective little barrier Francis thought would have stayed forever, so that they too would remain unchanged forever. Francis had a perfect little world in his hometown - a world he spent so long cultivating - and he fucked everything up that Monday night by fucking the one person he was never allowed to fuck in his fucking hometown.
Francis sold his car when he left for Argentina, so he walked the half-hour to the docks. He could have taken the bus, but it was the first day the sun was blossoming in the sky and he wanted to take advantage of it. Plus, Francis loved walking. It was satisfying to him.
"Just run away like you always do."
Francis frowned. If he could stop block those words from his mind, the walk would be far, far more enjoyable.
It pleased him a bit too much to find the docks the same as he left them. Mostly because the docks were never nice, and if there was one thing in the town that should have been changed, it should have been the docks. They were old, and littered. Most of the boats were graffitied too. (And not in the cool way.)
Antonio moved to the docs when they were all back in college. He provided several different reasons about wanting to "get his own space", "be near the sea", "be free", "go fishing", and et cetera. But it all amounted to the same thing in the end: Antonio just liked doing whatever he wanted to do. For better or worse, he'd always been like that, ever since they were kids. The only difference was he was rarely as assertive as Gilbert, or as persuasive as Francis, so Antonio took different measures to achieve it. Claiming his own space was one of them.
And to his credit, Antonio worked to the bone to get that boat. Selling art, doing commissions non-stop, in addition to part-time jobs all over the town. It was a nice boat. Francis and Gilbert had never seen Antonio work hard for anything until he wanted that boat. It was like something possessed him—he needed that boat as if it was his life force.
Francis spotted it, as white and red as the day Antonio bought it, and gleaming beautifully in the sunshine. Francis smiled. Then, when he saw a figure move across the deck, Francis giggled. When he was close enough to recognize the messy locks of brown hair, he ran.
Time felt both slow and fast as Francis bounced across the wood of the docks, climbed the steps to Antonio's boat, and barrelled arms-first into Antonio's chest. He returned to reality's pace when he and Antonio fell hard onto the deck of the boat, and their laughs turned into groans.
"Oh my god, Francis," Antonio wheezed, a broad smile on his lips. His eyes sparkled in the sunlight. "I think I'm going to bruise."
Francis was still giggling and unabashedly drinking in everything about his friend's face. "I'm so sorry, my dear. I think Gil's spirit possessed me for a moment. As soon as I saw the boat I couldn't stop running."
The sunlight was blinding, so it was hard to make out for certain, but the way Antonio raised his brow was ever so slightly suspect. Then again, did Francis really know what was suspect about his friends anymore.
Antonio sat up, dragging Francis along with him by the hand. "Come on, Franny. You look tired. I'll make you something to eat." Antonio's face was so warm, so tan, so full of sun. Francis didn't know you could miss something so much when it was right next to you.
Antonio took Francis inside the boat. It wasn't large of course, but it was still incredibly charming. Antonio made frittatas at his small kitchenette while Francis drank sparkling water: the only way to drink water.
"Sorry I couldn't meet you the other day," Antonio laughed sheepily. He scratched the back of his neck and leaned back against the small counter to look at Francis. "The person I'm dating is a bit… oh geez, what's the word? Shy? Suspicious?" Antonio kept laughing. He seemed absolutely smitten. "I'd forgotten when you said you were arriving, and apparently I'd already promised to be with Lovino that night."
Francis shook his head fondly. "I can't say I was surprised. Actually, I was more surprised you remembered I was coming," Francis offered a lopsided smile. But he decided to not pursue the recent past events. He wanted to know more about Antonio. He wanted to know everything. "So Lovino, is it?" Francis purred, lounging more comfortably in the tiny couch. "That's an interesting name. Where is he from?"
Antonio grinned. There was something playful in his eyes when Lovino's name was mentioned, Francis noticed. "He's from Italy. He moved here a few years ago, but I didn't meet him til—uh… Oh, he'd be so mad if I didn't remember. But I think I met him a year ago now?" Antonio nodded his head, as if encouraging himself of the answer. A smile returned. "Yeah, a year. We met through Gilbert actually."
"Through Gilbert? Wow, things have changed. Usually it'd be me setting people up," Francis whistled.
Antonio turned the stove off to collect the frittatas onto plates. He talked as he worked. "Gilbert didn't set us up," Antonio chuckled shortly. "We just met through him. Lovino and Gilbert are friends." Antonio stopped there, but as he set the plate onto the coffee table in front of Francis, he decided to say more. "Actually, Gilbert was a bit annoying about Lovino and I."
"Annoying?" Francis repeated blankly. Then a thought dawned on him and his hands flew to his head. "My darlings, have I actually missed a love triangle?! That's drama gold! I waited years for something like that to happen and I missed it?"
Antonio laughed as he joined Francis on the couch. "No love triangle, Francis. I kinda thought that at first, which led to a few scuffles," Antonio smiled in the other direction, looking a little embarrassed. He turned back and shrugged his shoulders. "But both Lovino and Gilbert kept insisting they were 'just friends'. 'Just friends'. So I'm not sure what it is. I did end up punching Gilbert in the jaw though a few months ago. I haven't heard from him since then."
Francis's eyes were wide and he went from staring at Antonio's arms, which were as strong and tan as always, to visualizing him trying to hurt Gilbert. Francis wanted to kick himself, because it sounded like the sort of thing he should have been around for: if it was electric, then to intervene, but if it was funny, to record. Did Gilbert punch back? How long did the fight go for? Did they apologize? Oh right. Apparently that they didn't.
"Francis? Hellooooo!" Antonio waved his hand.
Francis blinked, trying to push the scene out of his imagination. "Sorry, I'm just a little stunned," he admitted. "I feel like I'm a season behind in our hometown tv show and I'm trying to catch up."
"Aw," Antonio patted Francis's arm, looking giddy again. "Don't worry, Franny. There aren't many big things you missed. I'm still living here. I still doing freelance art. Gilbert's still living over there," Antonio gestured vaguely in the direction of downtown. He saw Francis's face was still crestfallen, and tried again. "And Gilbert and I are still friends you know! It was just a stupid fight. Honestly, after you left I think Gilbert and I were too close or something. The dynamic was really off. I think it was only a matter of time before we went for each other's throats."
"That doesn't make me feel any better," Francis sniffed helplessly.
"Yeah probably not," Antonio agreed with a guilty laugh. "But you're back now! Things will go back to normal. I'm sure Gilbert were turn up one day soon. Oh—speaking of which," Antonio leaned in closer, looking very serious. "Elizaveta's been calling me nonstop. She's probably going to start calling you too, but don't pick up."
"Don't pick up? Why? Did she and Gilbert break up?"
"Uh," Antonio looked up for a startling long time. "I can't remember. They broke up, then back together, then broke up again. It's hard to keep track. Anyway, she's been calling me everyday, even stopping by the docks looking for me. So now that she knows you're here, she's gonna call you too."
"Why?"
"Well," Antonio's eyes danced mischievously. "Either she's trying to find me to defend Gilbert's honor and teach me a lesson—or, she wants me to apologize to him. It's just easier to ignore her, trust me."
"Toni," Francis sighed long and loudly. "Your reasoning is actually appalling."
"Lovino says the same thing, but just trust me it's easier this way," Antonio insisted, looking very confident in himself. "But I'm not going to be the one to apologize first, it's Gilbert's turn."
Francis closed his eyes and nodded, though he didn't agree at all. It was hard to reason with Antonio after he already made up his mind though. There wasn't much left for Francis to do.
"But anyway, enough about me. I'm boring," Antonio chuckled. He leaned over his knees, curling his knuckles underneath his chin. He looked childishly excited. "What about you? Argentina and studying wine. You must have endless stories. Any big events I should know about?"
Francis looked at him. Hundreds of images of late-night excursions and beach explorations flashed across his mind. But they were honestly all so… trivial. None of them lasted. None of them mattered now that he was here.
"Just runaway like y—"
Francis sipped his sparkling water and offered a dashing smile. "I'm the same as you left me."
Or how I left all of you.
Francis walked miles that weekend, making shapes and patterns all across the city. He walked by all of the places he knew: those he loved and those he hated. All of the shops, the restaurants, the pubs, and the hideaways. He passed by Gilbert's apartment, he passed by his own old apartment many times.
But the place he returned to with each new shape he made was the apartment above the noisy Greek restaurant. The one with a balcony of a decorated iron and dying plants. Where there were two black chairs and one small table with an ashtray half-full. Francis passed by during the day, Francis passed by during the night. When it was alight, and when it was dark.
The place he ran away from. Arthur's little apartment. Exactly the same as he remembered it. Exactly the same as he left it.
Francis came by to see it, but if he spotted a familiar figure he would start walking again.
The following week Francis started his new job at a ritzy magazine. He was the food and wine critique, of course. Though he critiqued his hometown so often while away, the truth was it was a proper city now, and not only that, it was a hub of industry. Not just Teutonic cars and manufacturing, but culture as well. Antonio often did artwork for this magazine; that was how Francis discovered it.
The editor in chief was a young woman named Jeanne. Francis adored her. She sparkled and charmed everyone in the office, most of all him. Time flew by on gilded wings working there. Francis had never loved a job before.
His new desk was still sparse. He brought a small succulent and perched it by his office window. Later he'd bring some frames and photos. Maybe some of Antonio's artwork too. But for now it was the succulent, his laptop, and phone spread across a comfortably large desk. It made working a little hard, he had to say. Because apparently, Antonio was not wrong, nor exaggerating. Elizaveta did call, and she called several times in a row each time she did.
Francis was tempted to answer, but truthfully, the more Elizaveta called, the more he feared his phone. Instead, Francis would watch the lit screen, flashing Elizaveta's name, until it finally stopped and returned to darkness. He breathed a sigh of relief each time it was over. But when it began again, he'd groan and hunch over his laptop depressed and frustrated. Except, at exactly 4:13 PM, when Francis's phone lit up again, it was not for Elizaveta's call(s), it was for a text… from Arthur.
Francis practically lunged at his phone to read it.
Arthur: Still around? I'm going to Nero's for coffee before work if you want to join.
Francis had to reread the message several times to compose his answer, because he was tempted to write YES, YES, YES. Even though that would freak out both himself and Arthur in the same breath.
Instead he raised his chin and typed out the very carefully scripted text:
Lovely ;) I get off work at 5 PM.
Arthur was dressed in brown and grey again. Brown blazer, and a grey button-down; his trousers were a charcoal type of grey. He was sitting at a small round table with couches for chairs, so the picture of him lounging comfortable while sipping his London fog was too English, Francis almost couldn't take it. (Almost.)
Arthur spotted him coming through the steam of his tea and said, "I ordered you a latte."
Francis smiled as he undid his trench-coat. "Oh perfect," he replied and sat down. "You know me so well."
"Too well."
Francis inhaled the scent of bitter caffeine, mixed with the faraway scent of last hour's cigarette. "Probably, darling."
Elizaveta: Francis, I know you're back. Don't think you can hide from me. Pick up your damn phone!
Elizaveta: CALL ME BACK OR ELSE I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL FIND YOU AND SHAVE YOUR HEAD
Francis winced, reading the subsequent string of threats. "Elizaveta sure is… creative," he muttered.
Antonio peered at his phone and blurted a laugh. "She said she'd castrate me too, don't worry. They're empty threats."
Francis set his phone down and picked up his sparkling wine. They were sitting on the deck of Antonio's boat, surrounded by rocking waters and lit by the stars. "Why don't you just talk to her, Toni? Wouldn't that be so much easier. For everyone, but especially my luscious hair."
"Gilbert can talk to me himself," Antonio said easily, pouring himself another glass. He settled back against the wall of his boat and looked up.
Francis said nothing and joined him in staring at the sky. It was brisk, but in a comfortable way. It made the wine taste better and the company of friends even warmer. It was an incredibly nostalgic feeling: Francis's favorite feeling.
"I do miss him though," Antonio sighed.
"Same here."
"I wonder where he is. He didn't tell you, did he?"
Francis shook his head. "He sent me a series of messages when I'm guessing he was high about going on vacation to Russia, but I doubt that's where he went."
Antonio chuckled. "Yeah, he was in a bad mood about work stuff for a while. I'm guessing that was when he and Ludwig were fighting." Antonio chewed his lip thoughtfully and glanced to the side. "He's probably doing something work-related now. Maybe he's in America."
"You'd know better than me, I suppose," Francis lamented sadly.
Antonio laughed and clapped his hand onto Francis's shoulder, knocking a few splashes of wine from both of their glasses. "Don't worry, I know for a fact Gilbert missed you terribly. That's all either of us talked about for weeks after you left." He gave Francis a winning smile, trying to lift his spirits. "It probably is about work, you know. Gilbert has been crazy busy for a long time. Honestly, I rarely saw him even before we had our fight."
"Seems like he's doing well, right?" Francis prompted curiously, remembering the new skyscraper.
Antonio paused for a second. "I think so…" His green eyes searched around the air. "He and Ludwig were bickering a lot, but I guess that's how brothers are."
Francis mused on that sentence, but not for long because his phone lit up. Another message from Elizaveta.
Elizaveta: I'm coming down to the docks and I swear to god if I see you and Toni there I'm going to wring both of your guys's necks
"Oh shoot," Antonio laughed nervously, and swiftly grabbed his glass and bottle of wine. He walked in a crouch, heading for the door to the deck. "Come on, Francis. We gotta hide!" he whispered with a giggle. "Knowing, Eliza, she's two minutes away."
"Hide?" Francis repeated, copying Antonio's movements.
"Take your glass! If she sees that we're both done for," Antonio said, still looking far, far too giddy. "We're going to hide until she leaves. Just follow me."
"Oh my god," Francis laughed wearily. "What have you and Gilbert dragged me into?"
"Come on, Francis," Antonio winked. "It's part of your welcome home party. The usual bad touch drama, isn't that what you missed most?" Antonio ducked into the cabin of his boat, Francis close behind him. They shut off all the lights and hid in the bathroom, drinking wine between stifled laughs, until Elizaveta left.
They stared their hours afterwards, tipsy on wine, but drunk on each other's company.
Francis had a keen eye for faces. He had a keen eye for clothes too, and that was the main reason he walked into a stylish new boutique two blocks away from his office during his lunch break. But it was his keen eye for faces that prompted him to look above the stack of silk navy scarves and to the young man standing behind the cashier counter.
Francis immediately strode over, catching the young man's attention and surprising him further by grinning excitedly.
"Lovino," Francis said, extending one hand. "You're Lovino, aren't you? I recognize you from Antonio's photos."
It was obviously him, and from the way he blushed at the mention of Antonio's name told Francis he was just as emotive as Antonio described.
"Damn, you're the French bastard, aren't you?" Lovino replied, glaring at Francis with amber eyes. It was a harmless glare though, Francis could tell.
Francis tilted his head, still smiling. "What gave me away? My charming face? My winning style?"
"Your cologne."
Francis chuckled, taking in Lovino's appearance from head to toe. He was 100% Italian, Francis could confirm that. Leather jacket, black shirt, and shining shoes to match. "Antonio told me you worked at a clothing store. I didn't think this would be how I met you though."
Lovino shrugged his shoulders, still glaring, as if to say What of it, you bastard. He was very easy to read.
"So tell me, because I am so curious and Toni, bless his heart, is not much of a storyteller. How did the two of you meet?"
The store was fairly empty, as most expensive places were. And the fact seemed to annoy Lovino, who frantically searched for an excuse to leave the conversation. Disappointed, he mumbled, "we met at a restaurant with Gilbert and my brother."
"By candlelight?"
"Over the smell of garlic," Lovino deadpanned. Francis couldn't tell he was making a joke, or being serious.
"Romance personified," Francis said, playing along anyway. "So you're friends with dear Gilbert too, no? What have Toni and Gil told you about me?" Francis fluttered his lashes and leaned over the counter.
Lovino raised a brow, trying his absolute best to feign disinterest. Case in point, he checked his phone as he talked. "You're the smooth-talking slut that ran off to South America."
Francis chuckled. "Toni was right. You really don't mince words."
"Nope."
"You and Gilbert must be a rowdy pair together. He has a way with words too," Francis hummed, feeling melancholy again.
Lovino glanced up from his phone, eyes loud and lips quiet.
"Oh, could you tell me the time?" Francis asked hurriedly, standing up straighter.
"Uh, it's almost one," Lovino answered vaguely.
"Thought so. Okay, well I'm afraid I have to go, my dear. But it was lovely meeting you," Francis smiled affectionately. As he walked to the sliding doors he said, "when Gilbert's back you must tell me how you two became friends. He doesn't have many, you know. You're probably special." Francis waved and disappeared onto the street.
Alone in the store, Lovino shook his head and muttered, "not likely."
Over the course of just two and a half weeks, Francis began dating Arthur. Arthur. His oldest friend, Arthur. He hadn't planned it. It wasn't the reason he returned to his hometown. It was the reason Francis avoided coming back for so long. But something changed. Even if neither of them actually changed, something certainly changed between them. Maybe Francis was finally tired of running. And maybe Arthur was a bit tired of throwing attacks without getting anything in return.
Neither of them even said it aloud that they were dating. But it was an unstated truth. They met for coffee most afternoons, and some mornings when Arthur didn't have work the night before. They met for lunch sometimes, and during the weekends they met for dinner and walks. They argued about small things: their favorite pastime. And they both deftly sidestepped talking about big things: their least favorite pastime.
Tonight, a Saturday night, they were at the Greek restaurant underneath Arthur's apartment — because it was convenient and Arthur 'didn't feel like trying anything new'.
They ordered their meals and Francis chose the wine: the best wine they had in the restaurant of course. Arthur rolled his eyes.
"So do you think you're done traveling for now?" Arthur asked coolly.
Francis could see right through him. He smiled. "I think I'll be around here for a long time," he said. Before Arthur got too comfortable, he added, "but I would like to go back to Paris sometime if you care to join."
"Paris," Arthur scoffed dismissively. "Always bloody Paris with you. I'm surprised you didn't move their after Brazil."
"Argentina," Francis corrected again. "Not sure if I could live there actually. I'm quite sure I'd get nothing done living there. It's too perfect for me."
Arthur took a sip of wine to hide his smirk. "As if you do anything now."
"We could go there for Christmas," Francis suggested, eyes excited and bright. "Oh, Arthur darling, wouldn't that be lovely. We could go to Paris for a week and see the sights, maybe go London for a few days if you insist—"
"You imbecile. You just got here and you're already talking about your next trip," Arthur reprimanded. "Just sit down and stay home for a few months. It's not going to kill you."
"You can't tell me what to do," Francis teased. His eyes were still dancing at the thought of traveling again. That's just the way he was.
"I can, and I am," Arthur said with finality. "Just be a good dog and do as your master tells you."
Francis laughed so hard he had to put his glass of wine down. "My master? You?" He doubled over the table.
But Arthur didn't relent. He calmly sipped his wine. "Let's face it, Francis. If we were two kings pitted against each other in war, I'd most certainly win."
"Oh really?" Francis taunted disbelievingly. "And why is that?"
Arthur's leg brushed against Francis's under the table. He grinned wickedly, eyes electric green and mighty gold. "Because I know all of your weak points."
For all of his charm and grace, it never ceased to amaze Arthur what a grouch Francis could be in the morning. Sure, his voice was soft, almost dreamy, but his words were sharp and cutting if he didn't get his beauty sleep.
Untangling himself from Francis's grasp was such a learned skill. It took many trial and error, Arthur found. He thought he was finally getting the hang of it though. He managed to escape Francis with only a few minor threats. It was his bloody house anyway, goddammit. He should be able to do as he pleased.
To prove it to himself, Arthur fled to the sanctity of his bedroom balcony and lit his morning cigarette. He left the door half-open to 1.) annoy Francis and 2.) hear Francis if he calls. It was a win-win scenario. He only got three puffs in before the morning was so rudely interrupted by the obnoxious and loud sound of Francis's ringtone.
"Damn," Arthur cursed, carefully putting out his cigarette to reuse later. He climbed carefully back into the apartment and eyed Francis's buried body—well protected from any noise underneath layers of blanket and pillow. Seemed like Arthur was going to have to find it himself. He hunched over the piles of discarded clothing, sifting through to Francis's trench-coat. The ringtone was louder— what even was it?! It must have been the worst possible sound ever invented.
Arthur finally found the phone just as the ringing stopped. He saw the name Elizaveta on the screen; Francis did mention Elizaveta had been calling lately, but he never said why. Or did he? Maybe Arthur tuned him out.
Satisfied the ringing had stopped, Arthur decided to put the phone back and let Francis deal with it. But then it rang again. And dear god, was it louder than before?
"Damn, damn, damn," Arthur cursed, fingers sliding across the screen without thinking. "What the hell is so bloody important, Elizaveta?"
"Wh— Arthur?" Elizaveta blurted, clearly shocked. "Did Francis make you pick up the phone for him? Put him on. I need to talk to him. That fucking coward, why I oughtta—"
Arthur held the phone away from his face, letting the string of curses attack empty air instead. Sensing a pause, Arthur took the chance to say, "He's asleep. Can you call back?"
"Oh, is he asleep? Is the poor baby asleep?" Elizaveta mocked, raising her voice. "I don't care. Put. Him. On."
Sensing something deeper than the typical drama, Arthur ventured to make a guess. "Is this something about Gilbert?"
"Yes, it's about Gilbert. Why the fuck do you think I've been calling these idiots nonstop?" Elizaveta continued, and Arthur pulled the phone away again.
It's not as though Arthur knew much about the situation, especially since he didn't quite understand what the situation even was. He did know something though. But… perhaps it was wiser to wait.
"Hold on, hold on," Arthur said, tripping over clothes to get to the bed. He began undoing the blankets, trying to find Francis's head. "I'm getting him. Hold on, I said." Finally, Arthur found him. Fair skin, mussed hair, and all. Sleeping like a baby, despite all the noise. "Francis," Arthur said, poking his cheek. Nothing, so he pulled some hair. "Francis, wake up."
"Heyy!" Francis shrieked. Eyes opened blue and confused. "Arthur, what the hell?"
Arthur didn't even blink. "It's Elizaveta. She wants to talk to you." He pushed the phone closer, and Francis frantically rolled away.
"No," Francis whispered, tone desperate. "Put that thing away. Say I'm asleep or something."
"I did," Arthur replied tiredly. "Just talk to her Francis. Get it over with."
Through the phone speaker, they both heard a loud, "I can fucking hear you two, you know!"
Francis winced, and once she quieted, he begrudgingly held out his hand to receive the phone. He took a steadying breath and smiled as he talked, "good morning, Eliza. What can I help you with today?"
"WHY THE FUCK HAVE YOU AND ANTONIO BEEN IGNORING ME?!" she screamed.
"Oh god," Francis groaned, falling against the pillows.
"I'm going to step outside and finish my cigarette," Arthur announced blandly.
"Aren't you going to help me?" Francis whined.
Arthur didn't even turn around. "I think I'm going to skip one episode of your trio's drama, if you don't mind. College was enough for a lifetime."
Francis sighed, and lifted the phone again. "Just tell me, Eliza."
Elizaveta's breath carried through the speakers. She'd been yelling for a while. She was furious. "I haven't been able to get ahold of Gilbert for months now, so I want you and Antonio to get off your asses and meet me at the docks TODAY."
"Wait—" Francis shot up, holding the phone with two hands now. "You don't know anything about Gilbert either?"
"Nooooo," Elizaveta shrieked. "Why else would I be calling you guys so often?! I don't know where the hell he is. So now that you're awake, I want you to meet me at the docks in an hour. An HOUR. You got that?"
"Okay, but wait, is there anything more you can…" Francis stopped when he heard the line go dead. "Tell me," Francis finished lamely, frowning to the screen. He tossed his phone to the side and fell back on the bed.
Eventually the balcony door opened, and Arthur peaked his head in while one arm dangled his cigarette outside. The smoke still entered the room though. "So what'd you do now?" he asked. "And please don't tell me you slept with her to get back at Gilbert for something. That's so high school. Even for you."
Francis shut his eyes, wishing he could return to blissful sleep. "That would be much more fun," he moaned. "It seems like there's actual drama ahead."
Arthur rolled his eyes and went back outside, leaving the door open this time. "Isn't that what you want?"
"Apparently not."
Arthur drove Francis to the docks but he didn't stay. And maybe that was for the best. Francis didn't want to ruin Arthur's day with whatever drama ensued. He could deliver it with better humor after it was settled. Francis was an excellent storyteller. He knew where to gild.
So Francis was alone when he climbed aboard Antonio's boat, and he expected it to be completely void of activity. But on the deck was a familiar brunette.
"Lovino?" Francis greeted cautiously, a ready smile spreading across his lips.
The boy turned and, though he beared a great deal of resemblance to Lovino, it certainly wasn't him. He was softer: in expression and features alike. He even graced Francis with a genuine smile.
"Oh, hello! You must be Francis, right," the boy said, skipping happily to Francis. He briefly extended his hand before changing his mind and looping around Francis's shoulders with a hug. "I'm Feliciano. Lovino's brother."
Francis laughed, both surprised and pleased. He hugged Feliciano back. "Goodness! You two look so much alike."
Feliciano stepped away from the hug and giggled. "We get that a lot," he said. His eyes were bright amber.
"Francis? Is that you?" Antonio called, stepping onto the deck. He was wearing his painting clothes—white shirt stained sleeve-to-sleeve in oil, and blue jeans just as ragged and worn. "Nice to see you, amigo! Do you want to join us for brunch?"
Francis smiled crookedly, feeling guilty he was about to disrupt another good-humored morning. "I wish I was, my dear. But unfortunately, I'm here to be the bearer of bad news."
Lovino quietly appeared by Antonio's side, listening in on the conversation. He regarded Francis with searching eyes.
Francis sighed, "Elizave—"
"Elizaveta is here, assholes. So you better be ready."
Everyone on the boat turned to the dock to find Eliza dressed in a long, spring dress of angelic white, and looking ready to sink the boat with her fury.
"Fuck," Antonio cursed, hunching his head. Lovino snickered behind him; it was the first time Francis saw him smile.
"Elizaveta," Francis sang, taking lead of the conversation. "Please come aboard and join us."
"Thank you," she replied curtly, tossing her leather purse over her shoulder. "I will."
"Elizaveta?" Feliciano repeated to himself. He looked up to the blue sky in thought. "Oh," he gasped. "You're Gilbert's girlfriend, right?"
Elizaveta stepped onto deck with the help of Francis's steady hand. She stood tall and corrected, " ex , actually."
"You and Gilbert broke up?" Francis and Antonio barked in unison.
"For fuck's sake," Lovino cursed in the background.
"Yeah, what he said," Elizaveta nodded, pointing to Lovino. "We broke up six months ago. You guys should know that." She made eye contact with Antonio. "You should know that especially! You were even there!"
Antonio shrank back, laughing sheepishly and a little scared. "Oh really? Ah, I don't remember. Or maybe I do," he rambled. "You guys broke up and got together so many times, I lost track!"
Francis had his face in his hands, lamenting, "oh, Antonio…"
"Look, it doesn't even matter if we broke up or not. I'm here as Gilbert's friend. I was calling you guys as Gilbert's friend, but you were obviously too scared to pick up—though I can't figure out why."
"Antonio thought you were mad at him for punching Gilbert," Francis offered. He made a silent apology to Antonio, but at this point it seemed as though it was better to lay all of the cards on the table.
Elizaveta gawked, looking genuinely shocked. "What? No! I mean, sure I was mad at the time, but that was ages ago. What I want to know now is where the hell he is now! Did he really not tell you guys anything?"
"He told me he was going to Russia," Francis said, hands raised in defense.
"Yeah, he told me the same," Antonio added, pointing to Francis.
"Fuck," Elizaveta sighed, tossing her head back. She took a few breaths. "Okay, well the last I heard from him was three months ago. He sent me a series of texts that made no sense. Some said he was so sorry for everything he did. Others told me to go to hell. The last few were vague, but basically implied he was leaving for a trip as well. When did you guys last hear from him?"
Francis and Antonio exchanged glances. Antonio spoke up first. He began hesitantly. "Well, he sent me a message maybe around the same time. It was passive aggressive, but he basically said he couldn't meet up with me because he was too busy."
Elizaveta looked to Francis expectantly.
"To be honest," Francis closed his eyes. "I haven't heard from him even longer. Maybe four months ago. But he sent me messages telling me he missed me and couldn't wait for me to get back. A few days after that he told me he was going to Russia, but like I told Toni, I'm pretty sure he was high when he sent those."
"You guys are fucking morons," Lovino muttered, crossing his arms and moving to the other end of the boat.
Antonio glanced at him briefly, but returned his attention to Elizaveta. "He was really busy with work though. Could he be on a work trip?"
"Work?" Feliciano repeated, very confused. "Gilbert resigned three months ago. Didn't you guys hear?" He swept the eyes of everyone on deck and soon realized no one had any idea what he was talking about. Feliciano backtracked with a nervous laugh. "Oh, no. Was that a secret. I can never remember what Ludwig tells me."
Francis stepped closer. "Ludwig? How do you know him?"
"They're dating," Elizaveta answered first. "Feli, why did Gilbert resign? Did Ludwig say?"
"Uum," Feliciano's eyes were wide and unsure. "Neither of them said anything about it. Actually, Ludwig was really casual about it. I'm pretty sure he told me one day over dinner, and that was it. I didn't think anything of it actually…" Feliciano trailed off helplessly. His face was downcast in guilt.
Elizaveta looked ready to attack, but thought better of it. "Don't worry, Feli. You didn't know. It's okay." To herself she muttered, "I obviously should have come to you first though."
"Wait, do you know anything, Lovi?" Feliciano looked to his brother. He sensed everyone's gazes on him, so he explained, "they're friends! They're part of a club together. He might know."
"Lovino?" Antonio asked, moving to where Lovino was standing. He wrapped his arm around Lovino's shoulders, encouraging an answer. Antonio whispered something that no one else could hear.
After a few moments, Lovino brushed him off, and turned around to face the others with arms crossed. "I know nothing, all right."
"Lovino, seriously, if you know anything - anything at all - just tell us," Elizaveta insisted. Her eyes were desperate, almost pleading.
Lovino looked at her: at first he was hard and determined, but only Feliciano knew that Lovino had a soft spot for pretty women. Lovino's eyes thawed, no longer cold. The tension in his face dissipated until he could only sigh. "I really can't," he admitted meekly. "I don't know anything, honestly. I mean—" he paused, and the tension was palpable in the air. "Anything that I do know, I can't say anyway. So there's no point in asking me."
"What do you mean?" Antonio pressed, reaching for Lovino's hand.
Lovino didn't break the physical contact this time. But he was still defensive as he replied, "I already told you what I mean. It's a secret club. That's how we met, all right? I can't say anything."
Antonio squeezed his hand and leaned closer. He kissed Lovino's neck. "Lovino, please… A secret from me?"
Lovino's eyes went doughy for a moment, but he swiftly blinked and let the moment pass. He stepped away. "I can't say. Sorry," he stopped, meeting Antonio's hurt eyes. "Sorry. Really, I am. But I just can't. "
"But why can't you?" Elizaveta demanded in Antonio's stead. "Did Gilbert ask you not to say?"
"No, but—"
Elizaveta cut him off. "Well then, there's your excuse right there." Her high-heeled sandal tapped expectantly. "Gilbert didn't tell you not to, so just tell us yourself. You can blame me if you like. I don't care."
"Seriously, I really can't say anything," Lovino insisted. He flashed his wide brown eyes all around for back-up, but no one would give it to him. They were all too desperate for the answer.
"Lovi," Feliciano insisted. "If everyone really needs to know, can't you just say something? If you have anything that would help, can't you just tell us?"
Lovino was obviously torn now. He seemed both mad at his brother and guilty to his lover; to the rest he seemed as equally guilty and complicated.
"Honest to god, I don't know where he even is, so does it really even matter?"
"Yes," Antonio said, green eyes hard. It was the are occasion where Francis saw Toni's serious side. It was a serious situation after all.
Lovino looked just as taken aback, and at a loss of what to do. "Antonio, I can't say anything. I don't know where he is, I promise."
"You know more than we do," Francis pressed, not minding being the bad guy. It seemed as though someone had to be. And it was well past Elizaveta's turn. Francis had to take charge at some point—he'd been three years away so he may as well step in now.
Lovino stared at him wide-eyed, scared, furious, and dumbfounded. It took minutes of Antonio's whispering to encourage him to talk. Eventually, with his head turned away, Lovino whispered, "we were in AA together. That's how we met."
There was a tangible heartbeat in the air. Maybe even several. No one knew who should speak up first. But Francis's stare told Antonio it was his turn.
Antonio tentatively reached for Lovino's hand. Lovino didn't shrink away. His body actually softened at Antonio's touch. Even without words, the physical contact seemed to illicit the words: "I honestly don't know anything else. We met through AA. but that was it."
"And there was nothing else?" Elizaveta pressed, stepping forward again.
"Nothing else." He seemed resolute again; obviously determined to hold his ground. "There was nothing else. I promise. We knew each other there. We hung out afterwards. But he never told me where he was going."
Francis began laughing: it was breathy, strange, and forced. "Gilbert doesn't have a drinking problem," he said.
Feliciano stayed quiet like Lovino, but Antonio and Elizaveta looked at him.
"Oh, come on. Gilbert likes to drink, but he doesn't have a problem," Francis continued, hoping someone would agree with him soon.
Lovino shrugged lamely. "Maybe he doesn't. He never talked or anything. He just came and listened." However something in his tone suggested Lovino didn't believe his own words.
"He still drank with me though," Antonio added, eyes dark. "Even before we got into that fight we'd go out drinking. And it's not as if he drank more than usual. Or less. It seemed the same to me."
Elizaveta was tapping her foot, looking increasingly impatient. She pushed the strap of her purse further up her shoulder. "Okay, not to break up the heart-to-heart, but I'd still really like to know where Gilbert actually is. Clearly we have nothing, so I think it's time to bring in the big guns." She looked at Feliciano. "Where is Ludwig right now?"
Feliciano fidgeted with his hands. "He's at work…"
"Of course he is." Elizaveta shook her head and moved to the stairs.
No one moved at first. Francis and Antonio kept their eyes fixed on the deck, both clearly downcast. They didn't believe Gilbert had a drinking problem. Gilbert didn't have problems. He had stupid problems, sure. He got into fights—with his words and with his fists. He pissed off the wrong people, and he'd argue with Elizaveta. But honestly - as long as all of them had known each other - Gilbert never had problems. He was obnoxious, but Antonio and Francis both knew Gilbert was also the dependable pragmatist of the group. He got things done.
"You guys coming?" Elizaveta shouted. She was already on the docks, tapping her sandals again.
Francis sighed and wiped his hand over his face. Antonio's hands were clenched. Neither said a word.
Lovino didn't join them, and Antonio didn't press him on it. It was Elizaveta, Francis, Antonio, and Feliciano standing in the opulent lobby of Teutonic Cars. Francis hadn't stepped foot in the building since he'd been back, so it was his first time seeing the glamorous and modern interior.
"Wow, the company sure has grown since I left," Francis mused, eyeing the tall ceilings. Feliciano and Elizaveta were speaking to the receptionist. He and Antonio were loitering in the lobby.
"Yeah, Gil and Ludwig have been really busy," Antonio murmured. The anger had dissipated now; he was just tired. Francis suspected Antonio was torn in his concern for Lovino and Gilbert at the moment. But Antonio was well-practiced in picking himself up. He smiled slightly and joked, "though I honestly think the decoration here is too German."
"It is a little gaudy," Francis chuckled.
Elizaveta and Feliciano waved to them and pointed in the direction of the elevator. Antonio and Francis joined them again.
"He's in his office," Elizaveta said, leading them to the elevator. She pressed the button. "He thinks it's just Feliciano visiting him though, so this'll be fun."
Feliciano's laugh sounded a bit strangled. "Ludwig really doesn't like surprises, guys."
"He'll get over it," Elizaveta muttered. The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside. "I hadn't thought to come here honestly. Ludwig was always curt and prompt when I called him, it didn't seem like he was keeping anything from me."
"Ludwig is surprisingly good at brushing things under the rug," Francis agreed thoughtfully. Although Ludwig and Gilbert were brothers of the same autocratic streak, Ludwig was certainly the one in possession of more powerful professionalism. Gilbert was more the soldier and Ludwig the general.
Antonio patted Feliciano's shoulder as they exited the elevator: silently apologizing, but also asking for forgiveness. Feliciano was a tender person and he felt bad for the situation they dragged him in.
And in a flash, it was as though spirits of their rambunctious, college-aged selves seized Antonio and Francis. They saw Ludwig's office plaque - Ludwig Beilschmidt, CEO - and through the glass doors they saw Ludwig himself, sitting in a grey suit and talking seriously on the phone. Suddenly the realization of their best friend missing and their best friend's brother calm-as-could be broke their adulthood. What the hell was happening?
Francis charged in first, absolutely no plan in mind. He stood quietly in front of Ludwig for a tense moment as the two of them locked eyes.
"Father," Ludwig said slowly, keeping his gaze on Francis. "I'm going to have to call you back. Bye." He set down the phone and clasped his hands together. "Welcome back, Francis."
Francis still couldn't find the right words to say. He had so much energy and emotion, but his lips wouldn't move. He could only keep looking at Ludwig, analyzing his expression, and finding absolutely no clues to decipher at all.
"Ludwig!" Antonio yelled, appearing beside Francis looking far less composed, but at least more confident. "You have a lot of explaining to do. Where the hell is Gilbert?"
Ludwig spied Elizaveta and Feliciano entering the office; Feliciano made a hushed apology and Ludwig sighed. "Have you tried calling him?"
"Oh come on, don't play dumb. He hasn't messaged us in ages. He doesn't pick up phone calls. And apparently you have his job now?" Elizaveta pointed to Ludwig's desk plaque. "So where is he? He's obviously not on a work trip."
Ludwig's blue eyes were calm and calculating. "No," he admitted slowly. "Gilbert is up north visiting family. He thought it'd be better if he didn't use his phone for a few months and got some much needed rest."
Antonio's face scrunched in confusion, and he exchanged looks with Francis, both wondering if Gilbert ever mentioned family 'up north'. They had no idea. "Why did he resign?" Antonio demanded.
Ludwig pressed his lips together, looking slightly torn now. "Obviously none of you were in contact with Gilbert before he left, but he'd been struggling with job-related stress for quite some time. We thought it'd be better if I took over to ease the burden."
Elizaveta's eyes were very tentative—she had no idea how much was truth and lie. It didn't sound like a lie though. "But he still left even after you took over. Something must have happened."
Feliciano might have been the only one sensitive enough to realize Ludwig was slowly losing his composure. "You guys, I think Luddy's told us all he can. Gilbert's with family! So he's fine! Isn't that what we needed to know?"
"Gilbert's not with family," Francis scoffed, finding his voice again. "He might be up north, but Gilbert would never leave his friends to be with family none of us have heard of."
"With all do respect," Ludwig replied through gritted teeth. "None of you were involved with what happened. You," he pointed to Francis. "Were gone and had been gone for years. Antonio was too busy with Feli's brother. And you…" his voice trailed off and he glared intensely at Elizaveta. "Broke Gilbert's heart."
"Wha—You're blaming me?" Elizaveta barked, cheeks flushing pink. "Gilbert wasn't mad when we broke up. We ended things as friends. He was completely fine with it!"
Ludwig brushed off her words like they were made of lint. "Regardless of how much you care now, and how close you all were in the past, the fact is you know nothing about what happened with Gilbert. Nothing." He levelled each person in the room with his pale, blue eyes. Everyone felt so small. "Gilbert's fine, so you can be assured of that. But this is a family matter now. My father and I are handling it."
Francis opened his mouth to reply, stopped, and tried again. "You're not going to tell us anything then?"
Ludwig blinked and sat a little straighter in his leather chair. "I've told you where he is, more or less, and that he's fine. That should suffice."
Antonio groaned in frustration and grabbed his head. He made one last attempt. "Can you at least tell us when he's coming back?"
Feliciano nodded encouragingly to Ludwig.
Ludwig sighed and glanced to the side. "He was supposed to be back yesterday."
"Yesterday?" Elizaveta repeated, voice shrill. "Why isn't he here now?"
Ludwig shook his head, eyes closed. "I'm not sure."
A/N: Thanks for reading :) I'll be working on this fic during April, and will hopefully return to Disegno e Colore in May...reviews are much appreciated!