There are a lot of things that are hard for people to understand, like the unnameable feeling of knowing you're stuck in place. Being stuck, resigned to the pattern while the want to make something, anything, grow stronger, but the resolve, the determination, fades. You think 'Oh, that's a good idea. I should do that. I want to do that.' But you don't move to do it. And this feeling, it festers inside of you like a migraine thrumming in your temples. If you've never had a lack of motivation - and I do mean for an unreasonable amount of time - it goes something like this: You are sitting on the train tracks with everyone else, and you can all see the train coming. Everyone jumps off the track, moves out of the way, but you. You don't move. It isn't that you don't want to. You don't want to get hit by the train any more than they do; you want to jump off the tracks just as much as they do. You just can't. You are stuck. Then the train hits you, and you die. But it isn't bad enough that you're dead, no. You can't even stay dead. You sit up and you look at the mess you left on the tracks, and everyone around is saying things like 'Why didn't you just jump off that tracks?' And you don't know. You just don't know why. They suggest that it's as easy as 'Well, just do it. You just have to get up.' But they don't understand - you just can't. Because they don't understand things like migraines or motivation or hopelessness. Not the way others understand them.
These thoughts ricocheted around Gilbert's head as he hurried on his way to Antonio's house, head ducked down to avoid the cold of the wind against his face. He wished he'd brought his scarf. The snow cartwheeled through the air, falling down around him as his steps imprinted on the once crisp snow. It seemed like everyone around him was moving on with their lives; Francis was opening a bakery off the corner of the street where they had grown up together, three doors down from each other, and Antonio was leaving to study abroad in Italy for the next two years. And Gilbert mostly just felt like he was drowning.
As he approached Antonio's door, Gilbert straightened, trying to brighten his mood (his friends had known him far too long not to notice when he was down, but he knew that he should try to hide if for Antonio's going-away party at the least.). Gathering his composure, he raised his hand and knocked on the door hard, securing a large, devious smile on his lips.
It wasn't Antonio who opened the door, but Francis (not that Gilbert was surprised). "Mon ami!" He chirped, smile bright and breathless, as it always was. His pretty golden curls framed his face and the Prussian was struck, not for the first time, by just how pretty his best friend was. Truly, the Frenchman was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen (not that he'd admit it out loud). "You're late to the party! We were beginning to think you might have gotten lost!"
Gilbert huffed, crying out in mock outrage, "That was one time! And I was drunk off my ass. Can't you give me a break?" He crossed his arms, surprised to find that his fake smile has easily slid into a real one. He couldn't quite miss the knowing gleam in Francis's eye, telling him that the Frenchman had made it happen on purpose. Before he could comment it, though, Antonio was pressing at Francis's back, chattering excitedly about something or other. He'd been nothing but non-stop facts about Italy ever since he'd fond out he'd been selected for the abroad program. Gilbert's chest ached.
When the party settled down, after Antonio had said goodnight to his friends, Gilbert and Francis began their walk home. Despite being known for their loud, outrageous conversation, the two were comfortably quiet as they walked, shoulders barely brushing. Gilbert stopped walking when he realized Francis wasn't beside him anymore. The blond was looking at the empty corner shop where his bakery would be, a light in his eyes that Gilbert wished he could catch in a photograph.
"I'm so happy. I don't know if there's anything better than this, mon ami." His voice wasn't loud, but it sounded out of place in the empty of the street.
"I'm happy for you." Gilbert said honestly, though his voice came out a little desperate. Francis's eyes snapped to his friend, and he tilted his head, as though assessing what was going through Gilbert's head.
"I know you are, Gilbert." He paused, pretty blue eyes looking back to the shop, "It's okay to not know, you know. To not know what you want. To feel discouraged and not want to try." Another pause, "I know you can't help it. It's who you are. What if I help you? What if I help you find something that drives you?" Francis turned to Gilbert, expression serious, eyes determined, his mouth set in a hard line. Gilbert spluttered, trying to find a way to backtrack, even knowing that his friend was right, that Francis knew and there was no explaining his way out of this.
Finally, he sighed, rubbing at his forehead, "I... don't know if that will work." It probably won't work, his mind supplied, "But I want to try. I want to light up like that." He surprised himself with the honesty behind his last words, and he could tell he'd surprised Francis too, noticing how his eyes widened, then softened. He was so touched despite his doubts; touched that anyone - even a friend as good as Francis - would willingly spend so much time and effort on him. A smile curled onto the blond's lips, tugging at the corners. And damn, Francis's smile had always been contagious.
Before he knew it, Gilbert was grinning like an idiot, chuckles slipping through his lips until he threw back his head laughing. And then Francis was laughing too, and - Oh. Gilbert's laughter died away, watching Francis laugh. The Frenchman's laugh was bubbly and bright, and now Gilbert's chest ached for a whole different reason. He'd known Francis for years, heard him laugh a million times, but here under dingy streetlights on an abandoned street corner in the middle of the night in the freezing air - here, Gilbert saw him for the first time, eyes adjusting and focusing in on every detail.
The snow caught on Francis's pretty blond hair, and it was resting on his eyelashes. His cheeks were tinged pink, and even as his laughter died down, his eyes gleamed. Pretty soon, the man raised an eyebrow at Gilbert's stare, "Are you okay, mon ami? You look like you've been hit over the head with a hammer."
Gilbert blushed, mumbling, "Emotions suck. Why can't I just feel one thing at a time?" Francis looked amused and confused at the same time, but decided to brush it off as just another quirk of Gilbert's.
"Whatever that means. We have things to do!" His blue eyes sparkled, "Time changes everything, chéri."
"I'll say." Gilbert answered back, staring at his childhood friend in bewilderment. It seemed maybe, despite the turbulent feelings in his chest, just maybe things would be okay.