"What were you like as a kid?" Elizabeta ran her hand down the raised scars on my forearm.
"I was deluded, really kind of stupid. God the stuff I did, the things I said…I always feel repulsed whenever I remember my younger self." I stared down at my hands in disgust. The things I did with these hands, the fights I started…
When she didn't say anything I sighed and continued.
"I was arrogant, ignorant to others, egotistical and a total asshole. I thought it was fun to make other people uncomfortable and made a habit of picking on the ones that were weaker than me. A lot of them were in the same situation as me and I just made things even more terrible for them.
When I found out I liked guys too it got even worse. I started cutting myself more because of my self disgust and I didn't accept it for such a long time."
"What caused you to accept it?" She asked and stopped her hand to look up at me, I looked up to meet her eyes and she resumed her stroking.
"I was going to the hospital on a regular basis, whether it was because of blood loss or I simply got in a fight. This old nurse, his name was Fritz. Crabby old man I'll tell you that." I laughed, remembering the strange nurse.
"He would always tell me 'one more time Beilschmidt, if I see you one more time I'm 'a knock some sense into you."' I laughed. "He sat me down every time and asked me to tell him why I did it. It was a couple of months before I actually did talk to him. I told him about everything, even my being bi. You know what he said?"
Elizabeta shook her head and rested her head in her arms, listening intently.
"He said, 'get the fuck over it.'" Elizabeta choked and sputtered into laughter.
"What?" She asked and I smirked.
"He told me to get over it, he showed me how weak I was being and how many years had passed since my parents deaths. It had been such a long time that I was wallowing in self-pity that should have ended so much earlier. I was changed. It took a while, but I started volunteering at the hospital and I stopped cutting. I accepted my sexuality and actually started to love my life and what I was doing."
"What about the kids you bullied?"
I sighed again.
"I didn't really have friends, they avoided me like the plague even after I changed for the better. Ludwig was the only one that put up with me."
"Your brother?"
"Yah."
"What is he like?"
I smirked. "A wall." Elizabeta's eyebrows shot up to her hairline and I laughed. "He has little to no facial expression and hardly talks, he is like a living wall!"
"What is it like living with him?" she asked, and I sighed.
"He should come around here soon. Being the unresponsive block of muscle he is, he is pretty hard to talk to."
"Were you alone a lot as a kid?"
"Yes, especially with my parents gone. It affected Ludwig a lot more than me, but having to take care of him was hard for me to handle."
"Didn't you say you were living with your Grandfather?" She crossed her fingers atop each other and stared at me intently.
"Psh, yes but his appearance was a rarity, we basically lived alone."
Elizabeta grabbed my hand and frowned.
"I am really glad you are here Gilbert, I think you can really help around here." She hesitated "You can help Matthew."
I frowned. Matthew was something special, almost untouchable. What she was insinuating made me worried.
"Help him with what?" I asked, and she gave me a deadpan look.
"Even if I knew, I still wouldn't tell you. Don't you get that feeling though? When you are around him? Don't you just sense that something is wrong? He hasn't been out of that room…"
"He has been out of the room." I corrected her absently, concentrating on the feeling she was describing. Did I get that feeling around Matthew? I would have to pay attention next time I talked to him.
"What? His trips to the art room?" I nodded and she shook her head vigorously.
"That's not what I was talking about. I was saying he hasn't been outside, -like nature- in years. He used to talk to me about his longing to go outside but whenever he asks Alfred he says no."
"Outside?" In years? How could he be deprived of something so normal? Even our most dangerous patients got to go outback where they were fenced in (of course they were watched carefully). What could Matthew have done to not be able to go outside?
"Did he tell you about Kumajirou?" I asked, and she slapped her forehead.
"That is one of the only irrational things Matthew wants, but to want a polar bear! Its just silly."
"He should get a dog when he gets out." I said and she jerked her head up.
"What?" I asked, and she searched my expression.
"You are joking right?" She said, and raised her eyebrows.
"What? No why would I be joking?"
She frowned deeply, causing wrinkles to form on her forehead.
"Matthew isn't getting out."
I felt kind of…numb. After Elizabeta's comment I had left almost immediately, and treated my other patients in a daze.
Matthew wasn't getting out?
I felt a pang in my heart when I remembered the words. Matthew might never get to go outside again, he…Matthew was a prisoner in here.
I clenched my fists, allowing the nails to dig into my palms. Alfred was leaving. Alfred was leaving Matthew behind without anyone to take care of him, and no one knew Matthew like I was sure Alfred did. Did he expect him to live alone here for the rest of his life?
What will happen to him? Another pang hit me in the heart. I wouldn't be able to stay here forever; even if Matthew did let me in I wouldn't be able to deny my growing attraction to him.
Nor could I ignore the curiosity I held for him.
I stopped in front of Matthew's door and knocked hesitantly. I listened to the soft scrapings of Matthew's crutches as he moved across the room and stopped outside the door.
I almost gasped when Matthew opened the door. The light that poured out of the room when the door was opened caught Matthew's hair, making it shine like the rising sun. The simple shimmer it had stunned me, the eerily paleness his skin held seemed less sickly. Matthew looked angelic.
"Hi." He whispered and grabbed his crutches, turning away.
"Hello Matthew." I said, and he smiled a little at me. He sat down on the bed and immediately pulled his notebook from the bedside table. I noticed the small black tablet glowing softly on the side of the bed and took a closer look.
I was surprised to find that Matthew was reading Whinny The Pooh, the text was pristine and clear; some words were highlighted in yellow.
"Whinny The Pooh?" I asked, and he blushed.
"I'm almost done." He said quietly and moved to put the tablet away.
"Who got you that tablet?" I asked, and he froze.
"Mother." He whispered and moved slowly on his crutches to the other side of the room.
"Mother." He said again a little louder.
"Oh." How was I supposed to respond to that? He moved halfway across the room because of a question!
"Do you play any instruments?" He asked and I shrugged.
"Not really, I wished I could play guitar when I was younger because it was cool, but I kind of gave up on that."
"Why?" His voice sounded raspy and he moved his mangled hand to his throat for a second. He quickly hobbled on his crutches to his nightstand and took a drink from the water sitting there. It occurred to me that he probably didn't talk all that much.
I remembered how much he struggled the other night when he was going through his questions and internally complimented his fluency this time. He must have been practicing.
"I had other things to do around that time. Taking care of my brother and such."
"Because you orphan?" I noticed his loss of the word 'are' but didn't comment; Matthew was trying.
"Ya, I had to take care of him most of my life."
"Like Alfred." He whispered, and clenched his hands, a blush rising to his cheeks. Despite how beautiful Matthew looked right then I could help but hate that look of frustration that would sometimes catch him.
"How long has he been taking care of you?"
"Long." He answered, and avoided my eyes. He sat down on the edge of the bed, still far enough away that even if I reached out my arm I couldn't touch him; but still on the bed with me.
I tried not to let myself get affected by that too much.
There was a loud thump on the wall then, causing Matthew to jump about two feet in the air and knock over his crutches. There was a loud (British sounding) curse and the silence, and I picked up Matthew's crutches for him.
I held them out for him to place how he wanted, and he hesitantly reached out to take them. He didn't let me touch any part of his skin, but as he extended his arm his shirtsleeve lifted, showing me a few long silvery scars scattered around his arm.
I looked closer at his hand and found that it too had long scars crisscrossing over it, right up to the place where he was missing his finger.
I wanted to ask, I wanted so badly to because these scars were definitely not self-inflicted. I wanted to know how this could possibly happen to someone as wonderful as Matthew. Had there been a car accident? Did he develop a disease? Did someone do this to him!? I wanted to reject the thought quickly, but the crazed look in Alfred's eye flashed to the front of my mind.
Could it possibly have been Alfred who did this to him?
The thought disturbed me more than it should, and I felt a chill run down my back.
"Thank you." He mumbled and leaned the crutches against the bed again. There were a few mumblings from the other side of the wall then it fell silent again.
"What are they like?" He whispered, and looked at the wall where the noises came from. "Who are they?"
I held back a grimace, hoping Matthew wouldn't be disappointed.
"Francis is French, he…is kind of a flirt."
"Flirt." Matthew whispered, and flipped through his book. A look of discomfort crossed his features and he started rubbing circles into his palm with his finger.
"What does that mean?" He whispered and shifted his gaze away; a blush crept slowly up his face.
"He…finds people…good looking…and is overly nice to them because of it, in hopes of earning their affection." I explained, and Matthew's expression softened and he nodded a little.
"What does he look like?" He asked quietly.
I pulled up a picture of Francis in my mind and was once again struck by the resemblance in hairstyles of Matthew and Francis.
"He has the same style of hair as you, and it is also blonde, but yours is a bit brighter than his." I looked at Matthew's hair as it gleamed in the bright lights.
"He has blue eyes and a bit of a beard on his chin. It's called stubble." Matthew nodded and wrote quickly in the small notebook. I saw another flash of his arm when he shifted to write, and was horrified to find that there were even more scars up the length of the limb.
I wanted again to ask him about the scars, but I knew something would happen. Matthew was just too fragile.
"The other one?" He asked, and lifted his golden head to look at me.
"The other one is Arthur, he is British, and kind of hot tempered. He gets angry very easily."
Matthew stayed silent for a long time, looking down at his hands; at one point he flexed the hand that was missing a ring finger and I was struck with the realization of what it could possibly signify.
Whoever had done this to him wanted him to never have a connection to anyone…maybe a crazed stalker? I knew it, I just knew, this person was the reason Matthew was in here.
I tried not to get angry, and repressed it, looking at Matthew helped. He was still looking down at his hands; his pale skin glowed in the intense light.
"Why do you keep it so bright in here?" I asked, and Matthew's bright eyes shifted to look up at the glaring light. Usually in patients rooms we only ever used two of the lights situated on the ceiling. All four of Matthew's lights were on; glaring down on us and making me squint slightly.
"I don't like the dark." Matthew whispered, and I watched him trace a scar on his hand.
"What do you do at night?" I asked, but Matthew stayed silent.
"You don't need to tell me it's okay." Matthew nodded and opened his little book again.
"Have you been ice-skating before?" He asked and looked me straight in the eye for the first time. He was being completely serious.
"Yes, I have." I answered, a little unnerved by his attentive gaze.
"What is it like?" He whispered, and leaned a bit closer, as if he was trying to hear my answer as clearly as possible.
I looked at Matthew's beautiful violet/blue eyes and remembered my experiences skating.
"I guess it is a little bit like flying." I said, though as I had never flown before it was a hard comparison to make.
"Like gliding on air. You have to concentrate on your legs a lot to make sure they are in the right position so you don't fall down." I laughed a little at the image of Matthew falling to the ice. It was a hard image to conjure, I could only see him tumbling gracefully, not flopping onto the ice like I had seen others do many times.
"If you get good enough at it you can do all kinds of things, like spins and jumps. It amazes me what people can do." I said, and Matthew's eyes looked dreamy. I could tell just how much he wanted to skate on the cold, hard ice.
He stayed silent for a bit, and I let him imagine longer. I knew he was imagining what it would be like on the ice; it was the look I saw when interns came to the hospital I used to work at. They looked about ready to jump into action then and there.
"I want to do that more than anything in the world." Matthew whispered, and I nodded in agreement. I tried not to think of all the things Matthew would miss out on in life if he were to be kept in this place for the rest of his life, with his leg the way it was, he probably would never be able to skate.
"Have you thought of getting a prosthetic leg?" I asked, and Matthew closed his eyes tight.
"No." He said tersely and traced his scar again.
"Why not?" I pressed and the relief I felt when he opened his eyes to look at me was immense. I felt better when I could see his eyes.
"No need." He said. No need? He walked around didn't he? He went to the art room.
"You walk around don't you? Doesn't it get tiring to have to use the crutches all the time?"
"I have had them for a long time. I am used to them now." He countered and he dropped his head a little.
"I don't need a prosthetic leg."
"Do you want a prosthetic leg?" His head shot up and he stared at me with wide eyes, a new expression on his face: shock.
"That hardly matters." He said in his whispery voice. "I wouldn't ever use it. It would be bad for the others."
"For Alfred?" I asked, and he twitched, "for your mother?" He worked his jaw and stared at me, searching for words to say.
"For both." He finally said, and crossed his hands over his lap.
"You will never be able to skate if you don't get one." Matthew full out flinched, and looked away sharply.
"I know." He said. "I know."
We sat in silence for a little while, taking in each other's company and the silence of the moment. There were no sounds of the other side of the wall, and the only thing that could really be heard was the bustle of the hospital, which was never really all that busy.
"You are different." Matthew said, and I jumped a little.
"You treat me differently than everyone else." He whispered.
"Do you trust me?" I asked. I really wanted an answer, but Matthew's eyes told me the truth before he could say it.
"No." He whispered, and avoided my eyes.
No. No. No. Matthew didn't trust anyone, I knew that, but it still hurt. I wanted to be trusted by someone so special, so pure and beautiful. I rode the bus home, thinking deeply about our conversation.
Now was the first time I had noticed that I could hear Matthew clearly, no matter the distance. I had adjusted to hear him; it was amazing.
I was sure that was what the other's had done in order to talk to him normally. I had been so astonished by the peculiar way of talking, and before I realized it I had fallen right into the secret language. The language of whispers that Matthew spoke.
Was I any closer to Matthew than the others? Did I have any rights to consider myself special to him?
I hated myself because of him sometimes. I questioned every action I made, every question I asked. Who gave me the right to even ask questions? Matthew? He hardly answered them anyway!
The prosthetic leg was also a problem. Matthew was using excuses, he was afraid of Alfred, or his mother, something was holding him back from recovering from whatever had happened to him. What would happen if he did ask for the extension? How the hell would Alfred react to the act of boldness?
Alfred. The bastard. I knew he had to be a part of something. Alfred was one of the key points, a mystery in it's own. Alfred held every dirty little secret, yet he was the one who got to walk around freely every day. While Matthew was locked in his room, with magazines and a tablet to keep him company.
I hated the blue eyed man with such unjustified loathing it was surprising. I hadn't hated anyone this much since I hated the man who killed my parents in a car crash. That was deep, undeniable hatred.
I didn't even know what he did! Again I doubted myself. Who was I to dig deep into their secrets? To drop into Matthew and Alfred's lives and hate without motive. How could I be so shallow? Pouring endless hours into trying to figure out the puzzle that was Alfred and Matthew.
But…Matthew was lonely. I could see it in his every movement. I knew he hated being in that room, I knew he detested being in the hospital and living without a purpose. When was the last time Matthew touched grass? Felt the breeze? Touched snow?
Had he ever even gone into the sun? His shock of pale white skin begged to differ.
I watched the bus pass by different neighborhoods, yellow streetlights flashed past, giving the street a yellow glow to fend off the darkness the night brought.
Hopefully I wouldn't wake Ludwig when I got home. The bus pulled up to the stop a few blocks away from my house and I stepped off with a few other people. We moved our separate ways and I walked tiredly to Ludwig and my house.
The lights were on, strangely enough, and when I went to unlock the door I was surprised to find it was already unlocked. Very unlike Ludwig.
I opened the door cautiously, peering in first then slowly entering the house. I didn't call out, only crept forward through the kitchen (which was the first room entered when coming in the house) and into the living room.
I opened the door softly and yelped, jumping back from the scene in front of me.
It was Ludwig, sitting on the couch, with Lovino sitting opposite him, kissing him.
"Lovino!?" I screeched and the couple broke apart in a hurry blushing like mad. Lovino jumped up from the couch and ran over a happy smile on his face, while I gawked at the out of character expression.
"Ve! You know mi fratello?!" He cried and clasped his hands together.
"What?" I looked to Ludwig, whose heavy blush had faded slightly, as he stood up next to Lovino.
"Ahem, um, Gilbert this is Feliciano Vargas…my um boyfriend." He cleared his throat awkwardly and his once fading blush was back full flush. I had to forcibly close my gaping mouth.
"I treat your brother at my hospital!" I cried, pointing to now named Feliciano. "How the hell did you two meet?"
"Ve! We met a few months ago when Ludwig came to my restaurant! I made him pasta and…oh! Luddy we should have pasta tonight!" The small, obviously Italian male bounced on his heels staring up at Ludwig (who couldn't seem to dispel that blush) and smiled widely.
At that smile, Ludwig's resolve crumbled and he mumbled an affirmative.
I followed them back to where I had first entered, and it seemed Feliciano had all the things necessary out in a matter of seconds. Ludwig stood next to me, watching the immaculate process the airhead had of making the pasta. Each move he made was precise and practiced. It was kind of hard to believe the bubbly excitable boy from before could have such a serious facial expression.
After a few minutes (it seemed like) the pasta was ready. Ludwig had slipped away without my noticing while I watched Feliciano mix the tomato sauce happily, and set the table for three people.
It was strange seeing that many places set when it had been just the two of them for so long.
Feliciano carried in a steaming bowl of delicious looking pasta, covered by a tomato sauce that looked heavenly.
The Italian settled down in the chair next to Ludwig while I sat across from the couple.
"So…Feliciano. Tell me about yourself."
