(To define one certain beginning would be near impossible. Usually it is. And really the events are so convoluted, twisted and bound so inexorably, that it's too hard to separate them and that's what beginnings are all about. It could have started the day Elizaveta went away; it could have started when Gilbert first picked up a paintbrush, or the day he dropped out of college. Hell, it could have started the day he walked into the library and saw a little yellow bird singing outside the window like he hadn't a care in the world. But there're too many little details in there, and they add to the story in all the wrong ways. If you got right down to it, it — this switch in time, whatever it is — starts the day he lost his job at that dingy little pizzeria down the street.)
He hadn't realized just how easily offended that one short Italian could be. The tray had fallen, and it'd been totally on accident, and it wasn't like he was going to apologize, and so — well, it had ended in a shoving match, and Gilbert always had prided himself on his strength. Feliciano, sweet boy he was, had tried to separate the two of them only to receive an elbow to the face and various profanities in Italian and German. And then their grandfather — he owned the pizzeria. Friendly guy, Gilbert had always thought, and a family friend — had stepped into the picture and Gilbert had found himself tossed out on the doorstep. And that had been that, really.
And so it is that Gilbert returns home with bruises and scrapes in lieu of paycheck. The flat is quiet when he clicks the lock open and steps inside — it's always quiet, no surprise there. Everything about Ludwig is quiet so it only makes sense that his home would be, too, until him and Gilbert get into the usual shouting match. "'M home," he calls brusquely, tossing his coat onto the couch. Ludwig promptly steps in and hangs it on the hook near the door, giving Gilbert a look. Then:
"What happened to you?" along with a stern look and — is that a hint of concern? How sweet, Gilbert thinks.
"Ah, work." Gilbert shrugs, smiles at Ludwig. "Or, uh. The lack thereof."
Ludwig stares for a long while; Gilbert considers just going to his room. Finally he asks, "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Hum. I. I haven't got a job anymore."
"And why is that?"
"Dunno," is all Gilbert says, because Gilbert is Gilbert and Gilbert does not admit his mistakes (because he doesn't make any, of course). "Look, it's no big deal, I just — "
"Do you know how difficult it was for me to get you that job?"
Gilbert rolls his eyes. "Aw, Luddy, our gradfathers are friends! How hard could it have b — "
"Who else would have let you near a cash register? Or an oven?" Ludwig is slowly turning red, contrasting sharply with crackling blue eyes.
"Well, it's! It's only a minor setback, I can get another job just like that!" and he snaps his fingers for good measure. "It'll be just fine, don't you worry!"
And Ludwig almost —almost — believes him.
But before they know it it's been two months, two months of Gilbert sitting on the couch flipping through magazines or being on Facebook and assuring Ludwig that he'll get a job eventually. And one day Ludwig decides enough is enough because he can't afford to have freeloaders, blood or not.
Gilbert is sitting on the couch watching some weird movie in Japanese when Ludwig slams a suitcase down next to him. Gilbert gives a start, glances over at Ludwig and frowns deep. "I'm watching something."
"Not anymore, you're not," Ludwig says sharply, gesturing to the suitcase. "It's time to go now."
Gilbert blinks. "Go? Where? On a trip?"
"I don't care. Away." Ludwig is pacing, from the living room to the kitchen where he gets his wallet and back to the living room where he pulls out a wad of notes and a handful of change. "Here, you can take this and live off it till you find a place to live and a job. I can't pay for both of us on my own, and you obviously are not going to find a job until you have some sort ofmotivation."
"But. I." Gilbert opens his mouth to talk some more, closes and opens and closes before his jaw sets resolutely and he stands up. "Well. Well, fine, if you're going to throw your own blood brother out into the cold — "
"It's April—"
"— then that's perfectly fine. Go on and be heartless. Mooching off my little brother could hardly be considered awesome, anyway, since I don't need your support."
"Yes, Gilbert, that is exactly what I am trying to tell you," Ludwig says, if only to assuage Gilbert's ego. "So go on, now, before I throw you out on your own."
Gilbert just sits there for a while — because this is coming as quite a bit of a shock, this. Well, maybe not. Money's been tight lately, so in a couple days he'll understand and he'll forgive Ludwig. But for now — for now his movements are sharp as a knife and he pushes Ludwig out of his way with his shoulder as he picks up the bag his brother's packed him. Then, no goodbye, no glance over his shoulder, he storms out to — well, to. To do something, somewhere.
It's raining when he steps outside (of course) and (of course) he hasn't got an umbrella to stop the droplets from falling one, two, three on top of his head on and on. And then he gets an idea: Antonio and Francis. He hasn't talked to them since he'd been fired, but. But, well, certainly they'd be willing to help him if only for a month or so. It's ten blocks from his place to Francis and Antonio's; he's soaked by the time he shows up at their door.
He knocks, and it's a long while before finally a tall, sleepy-looking Antonio answers the door. "Ah, we don — " Green eyes go wide, and Antonio presses his face against his screen door. "Gilbert? It's you! Ha! Took you long enough to get in touch!"
Gilbert backs away, tries a smile and fails. Antonio's enthusiasm is… uplifting, to say the least, but he's in no mood for it now. "Y… Yeah, s'me. 'Sup."
"What brings you here, Gil?" The Spaniard steps back to work with the lock; the door clicks open, and Gilbert storms in and tosses his bag on the couch.
"Ludwig kicked me out," Gilbert says, and Antonio might have asked why except the set of Gilbert's shoulders as he turns his back on him tells him he oughtn't. "Where's Francis?"
Antonio shrugs. "On a date. He's keeping up a stable relationship, did you know?" He pauses. "Well, okay, maybe not… stable, per se, but I m — "
"Will he be home tonight?" Gilbert interjects.
"Maybe, he usually is."
"I'm sleeping on his bed tonight," he says, and heads off to the room they share, and Antonio hurries after him.
"Gil, I said he might be c — "
"I don't care," Gilbert snaps, and the evening's only just begun but Gilbert closes the door to Francis and Antonio's room and goes to sleep almost instantly.
Later that night — early in the morning, maybe, it's hard to tell with this much alcohol in his system — Francis comes home to find the lights all off. He guesses Antonio turned in early, which is normal enough since all Toni does is sleep, it seems like, anyway.
He makes his way to his room clumsily, nearly knocking the endtable by the couch over in the process, but when he peeks inside he finds that there's someone else on his bed. He almost calls out Gilbert? but he has the common sense not to because that would wake Antonio. Francis pouts and bites at his lip, trying to figure out how to get Gilbert off his bed and onto the couch without making him angry, because Gilbert is vicious when he's angry. He's resolved to just do it, to just go over there and shake him awake, but then he looks, really looks, and. Gilbert, just laying there, all quiet snuffles and limbs splayed at sharp angles taking up the whole bed as a child might, is kind of really adorable. And so that night, Francis sleeps on the couch.
(The important things rarely need an explanation. So when, the next day, Gilbert holes himself away in the room with a few things of paint and a tall easel, Francis and Antonio don't ask why. They don't understand the reasons quite yet, but they will soon enough and without any words it is decided that they'll let Gilbert figure out why for himself first. And then they'll follow.
It's been six months since Gilbert touched a paintbrush; Antonio and Francis know because that was when Gilbert stopped talking about high school and somehow in Gilbert's mind the two things are linked in a strange sort of way. He's said time and time again that he's over what happened then, but now they're finally starting to believe he might be getting there.)