The first time she saw him, the palace was bustling.
Servants skitter through the halls in long strides, twirling around other busy people yet somehow miraculously managing to not drop a single dish or napkin, nor break any vase. A woman, certainly not of the same class as those poor workers, stays away from the chaos by standing behind a pillar, choosing to watch from the sideline as the laborers hurried to get their jobs done; and yes, jobs, for no servant carried a single burden. They held the responsibilities double the work of ten men, working like slaves for pity money.
A coin here and some gold there will make half of the mass fall to their knees and worship the people of this palace as if they were gods; silent deities controlling by faith, in her opinion. These high councils wouldn't dare lift a finger to defend themselves if it meant getting dirty.
Elizaveta, daughter of the King, frowns in displeasure at the haphazard flood of male and female servants - adorned in crisp white dresses and suits to show their privilege. The status of 'Palace Servant' is supposed to represent class and dignity for those not worthy of it, and she supposes that in some twisted way it does; however, the bleached suits and pearly dresses are mere rags and worn clothes. They shine in the eyes of the scorned to keep them blind. So bright that the lesser people imagine themselves clad in dingy clothing and worthless white, believing that they are wearing the purest and cleanest silk; so bright that the obvious oppression is no longer obvious, and is now a hidden shadow manifesting into the livelihood of sullen people.
She shakes her head to push out those thoughts.
A princess shouldn't think that way, shouldn't recognize the brainwash proposed by her superiors. She is lucky to have been born into such a fine family, the finest of all. The King and Queen are her parents. No siblings or cousins or uncles or aunts to share her riches with. Her only responsibility: ruling the kingdom, but that is far enough away for her not to fret. So why should she worry about things she has no control over? Until then, she should enjoy the many festivals and dinners, especially the one for tonight.
So she takes a deep breath, closing her eyes to calm her nerves, before stepping away from the servant hall and back the direction she came from.
"G-Gilbert! What are you doing here?" the boy whispers, staring in bewilderment at the teen climbing through his window with an empty sack slung over his shoulder. This doesn't look good, not good at all. Especially by the way his friend is grinning like a wild man. "Seriously," he scowls, "you need to leave."
Grabbing hold of the windowsill, Gilbert swings his lower half through the window before hopping down and crouching to steady himself. It takes a moment to catch his breath, a tense moment of breathless sighs and flinches due to his convulsing friend's looming, and then Gilbert is back to smiling up at him. "Just relax, Mattie, it's not like they can hear me," he assures dismissively while moving to sit on his behind. Damn, his legs hurt.
Before him is a large bedroom adorned in white, lilac, and gold - a simple, elegant flow of gold that is neither boastful nor confident, yet rich in its shine. It spirals out from the doorway at the far side of the room and circles until it reaches the corner of a wall, where it then outlines each edge. Mattie, rather Matthew Williams of Licht, is standing a few feet away, wearing the traditional attire of a Specter: a deep byzantium colored uniform fasten by various buckles, buttons, and straps.
It was just for appearances, though, because how is wearing such a thing practical? At least Gilbert thought so.
Groaning, Matthew rubs his hand down his face in exasperation, letting his surge of emotions resonate through that one simple sound – which coincidentally sounds like an animal giving its last breath of life. Once the noise dies, he bites his bottom lip and places his hands on his hip, frowning. "Who cares if they can't hear you, what if one of them comes in here?" he asks angrily. "Mind you, neither can they hear me."
"So?" Gilbert says.
"So it's quite possible that one of the nobles will walk in at any time!" Matthew exclaims and holds out his arm to emphasize, pointing towards the door as if cueing someone to walk in. But nothing happens, so Gilbert's smirk widens.
Clambering to a stand, the teen fruitlessly brushes the dirt off his ragged clothing and then walks up to Matthew, grabbing him by his shoulders and giving him a little shake. Red eyes brighten against nervous blue. With a deathly serious tone, Gilbert asks, "When did you become… such a stick up?"
A pink flush fades into Matthew's cheeks. "Wha-what?"
"This prude-ness about you," he administrates another shake, "I knew that you were a nervous wreck before but can't I just, I don't know, visit you once in a while?" He says with as much guilt-tripping that he can muster, making sure to keep eye contact with those ever shifting blue ones. Gilbert leans just a bit closer, which is apparently too close since Matthew flinches and wrench himself from Gilbert's loose grip.
The Specter's frown deepens before shifting into a raised eyebrow, lips quirked smugly. Confidentially, he points out, "If you were just here to visit, then why did you bring an empty sack?"
And suddenly the bag feels a lot heavier on Gilbert's shoulder. He glares down at it, mentally tearing apart the already half-torn, worn, and grimy sewn sack. As if sensing Gilbert's displeasure, the sack droops until it is only hanging onto his shoulder by a miracle of gravity. He stares for a while longer, mostly in a pathetic attempt to ignore the question, until Matthew walks up and snatches the bag from him, holding it up to his facing and grunting for his attention.
"Gilbert!"
"Mmmgh," Gil rolls his eyes and huffs. He sheepishly smiles and shrugs, "Happy birthday?"
Matthew waves the sack in front of his friend, causing it to roughly scrape against his cheek and nose. Moving again, Gilbert grabs the end of the sack and yanks it from Matthew's grip. "Is this really necessa-"
"-You came here to steal, didn't you?" He accuses and takes one step forward as Gilbert steps back.
Gilbert holds out his palms in defense. "I wasn't going to take much," he explains, "how un-awesome would that be if I got caught?"
That doesn't appease his friend's anger. "You were planning on stealing from the royal palace. Do you understand how dangerous that is, especially with the dinner tonight? You're risking your life for what? Some scraps of gold, pieces of silver, a few expensive dishes? Gilbert you need you leave." Matthew crosses his arms and stands unbending in his conviction. "Now."
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Gilbert knows that Matthew is right. He shouldn't be here. Sneaking into the palace on a normal day was one thing, but on the day of the annual Specter dinner? It's reckless, irrational, and downright stupid to even fathom. Either he will be spotted by a servant or one of the nobles and the consequences will be severe. They wouldn't even kill him, no; they would place him in the dungeons and torture him for years before giving him the pleasure of death. And Gilbert knows this, he knows. But he has to do this. He has to feed his family and give whatever is left over to those who need it, because if he doesn't no one else will. No one else can. So he has to.
But Matthew doesn't understand.
Sighing in resignation, Gilbert lets down his hands and averts his gaze from the purple suit that is choking his friend. Matthew must be forgetting how life is on the outside. The thought makes his hands clench into fists, flexing muscles irked by the notion of immaculate white and pristine silence consuming one of his only friends.
Swallowing his building anger along with the lump in his throat, he opens his mouth to speak but hears the voice of another.
"You can… If you need to, Gil, you can take from my room."
What?
Piercing red eyes seek out Matthew but his younger is looking away and chewing the inside of his cheek, an expression of defeat and stubbornness on his face. Gilbert stares incredulously at him. Are his ears and eyes playing a trick on him? But Matthew doesn't let up, and soon a wave of relief and warmth washes over him, replacing his anger with joy and Matthew yelps in shock by the way Gilbert slams his body against his in a strong embrace.
Like a captured animal, Matthew grumbles and squirms under him. "Erm, gah – ah, Gilbert?"
"Yes?" he coos and tightens his arms.
"You can get off now…"
Gilbert shakes his head. "Nein."
A pair of hands wiggle out from between their compressed bodies and grab Gilbert's shoulders, trying to pry him off. It takes considerable effort from Matthew to remove his personal leech – his leech with red eyes and a beaming, crooked smile – but once Gilbert is off he shakes himself, just for show, to which Gilbert flips him off, and then strides to the opposite end of the room, hand fiddling with the doorknob of a gold-patterned door. He goes to open it, but then hesitates and turns back to Gilbert warily.
"I'm serious Gilbert, only take from me. Think of it as an offering…or presents!" he nods. "Presents, but you can't leave my room. And you need to leave before anyone comes in. If you get caught…" his words hang in the air, too heavy to float so they sink to the ground, nurturing the floor with a promise of dread.
Gilbert tries to wave off his friend's fear with a smile, but he's unsure if it was a grimace or not. "I'll be fine," he assures, "now go so I can get to work. You don't want to see this, Mattie, it's for adults." He ends with a wink and Matthew gives a sad smile before nodding again and stepping out of the room.
The door closes with a heavy thud, echoing the way Gilbert's heart drops.
This isn't right, he thinks, but doesn't give it the time of day to settle. Matthew is giving him a free card to stea- to take anything valuable in the room, without threat of persecution, and he really doesn't want his friend, or anyone else, to walk in on this so if he's going to scavenge anything, he needs to do it as soon as possible.
Silk sheets and smooth glass, a pale purple tint to the meticulously woven bed spread. Fluffed pillows sit atop it in picture perfect stillness, reminiscent of the silence in the room, the walls, the halls, and the palace. So much motion to be felt yet it is framed in a blitz of unnerving quiet.
His steps create a crescendo of minute noise as he paces the room, filling his bag with stray fabrics, empty vases, and a single jewel necklace made of exemplary rubies and impeccable diamonds. Not a blemish in sight; he is completely surrounded by the epitome of perfection. And here he is, shoving into his filthy sack beautiful items that have never seen a flaw in their long lives.
He is the spot in the room, the sole disgrace in this picture of cleanliness. Garbed in a dull white cloak and battered shirt and pants, he doesn't belong. His boots should leave heinous tread marks on the quintessential floor, but they don't. The floor is resilient against his stomping and it depresses him further.
The sack rustles from the weight of a clock he tossed in there, and Gilbert gives it an experimental jostle to test its strength. Much heavier than before, the sack whines slightly; he waits for another sound, keen to a rip, tear, or strain, but nothing comes, so he ties the strings at the end to keep it sealed before moving it to his other hand, giving his right arm a break.
Satisfaction settles in, but for some reason his legs won't move from where they're planted, and his eyes refuse to focus on the window, instead looking around the room. How can Matthew stay here? It hurts to think about it; nonetheless, Gilbert ponders the question. The question that has roused his thoughts for many nights and days and now he's wondering how his friend, his human-turned-Specter friend, can so easily let go of his past and live in this…this purity.
This fabrication of purity.
Or maybe, just maybe, Matthew hasn't let go of the memories that made him? The proof is in Gilbert's heavy hand and he tears his eyes from the room and to the sack - the full, heavy sack. A smile slowly forms on his lips.
Gilbert turns around with a newfound pep in his step, and heads toward the open window. Cool air brushes his face refreshingly as he slugs the sack over his shoulder and with his other hand grabs hold of the window sill. The wind is still blowing when he leans half of his body outside and prepares to jump, ready to go home and showcase his souvenirs.
And then the bedroom door opens.
Like a deer caught in headlights, Gilbert freezes and stares at the Specter girl staring wide eyed back at him, her lips parted in shock. Her mouth moves as if to make a sound but nothing comes out - nothing can - and a second feels like eternity before Gilbert is scrambling out through the window and falling to the ground.