DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

FAMOUS FIRST WORDS

NINE

LOVINO

THE NEXT DAY

It was just after nine o'clock when Lovino awoke, only to find that Antonio wasn't beside him, which worried him, because they had fallen asleep together. For one jarring moment he wondered if Antonio had left sometime in the night, having changed his mind about everything Lovino had confessed, and deciding to bail on their relationship and find himself a boyfriend who wasn't traumatized by past abuse. Maybe that's for the best, he considered, trying to deny the sadness he felt just thinking of it. Then he heard Antonio's voice from the kitchen, saying: "Hola, Matt!"and he relaxed, feeling foolish for overreacting and doubting the sweeter-than-sugar Spaniard.

He's still here, he thought in relief. Despite what I told him, he still wants me.

He yawned and stretched like a kitten, arching his back into pillows that smelled faintly of Antonio's cologne. Now that he knew Antonio was in the kitchen waiting for him, he was in no hurry to rouse from slumber. His body felt slow and heavy, drowsy in the way one does when shaking off the last remnants of a good night's sleep. Because it had been good. He had forgotten how good it felt to fall asleep with someone lying beside him, their limbs entangled and their warm bodies pressed close. Lovino had always hated waking up alone.

Eventually, he did drag himself out of bed, throwing on his boxer-shorts and then a pullover, because it was cold in the flat.

Did someone leave the window open? he wondered, shivering.

Antonio and Matthew were congregating at the counter. "Cute glasses," Antonio was saying as he unloaded a brown paper-bag.

Matthew smiled shyly, trying to hide his bespectacled face with his bedraggled hair. "I accidentally slept with my contacts in and they were my last pair," he said in explanation. "Oh, Art—" he started when Arthur appeared from the washroom.

"I'll order more," Arthur assured him. (Why Matthew couldn't order his own contacts, Lovino didn't know.)

Matthew looked relieved, but it wasn't Matthew whom Lovino was staring at.

"Hola, cariño," Antonio smiled, crossing the flat to kiss Lovino's cheek. He looked like he had been awake for a while, showered and dressed and looking like the weekend, even though it was Monday.

Mm, he smells so good, Lovino thought, smiling as the Spaniard lingered. He was sure Antonio would have rubbed noses or cheeks with him if they hadn't had an audience, like a dog begging for attention, and he admitted that he would have fallen for it. They were both very fond of physical affection.

"I got breakfast for everyone," Antonio announced, pushing a take-away cup into Lovino's hand. "Here you go: black coffee, just as you like it."

"Grazie."

"And tea for Arthur—two milks, no sugar, right?"

Arthur took it with a quiet: "Cheers."

"And Matt," Antonio continued, seeming not to notice Arthur's morose tone, "I didn't know if you prefer coffee or tea, so I got you both."

"And he'll drink both," Arthur muttered, retreating to the window.

Matthew, however, looked delighted. "Thanks!" he chirped, taking both cups. Then: "I like this one, Lovino," he joked, indicating Antonio. "He can definitely stay."

Lovino rolled his eyes, but smiled. It felt good to have his friend's approval; God knows, he had never had his family's. In that moment, he was proud of how considerate his boyfriend was.

"Dibs on the strawberry danish!" Matthew said, gesturing to the smörgåsbord of breakfast pastries crowding the countertop. "Unless someone else wants it—?" he added sheepishly.

Antonio laughed. "Take whatever you want, Matt, I bought lots. I even bought jam scones—against my better judgement," he teased, "because I know that you like them, Arthur—"

"No, thank-you," said Arthur without turning around. He was sitting on the wide window-ledge, cradling his tea against his folded knees, and looking for all the world like the sullen protagonist of a Dickens' novel. If only it was raining, Lovino thought.

Antonio glanced at Lovino, silently asking if he had said or done something wrong to upset the Englishman, but Matthew intervened:

"Mine!" he claimed, scooping a jam scone into what was fast becoming a hoard of pastries.

Antonio snorted, relieved. "Really, Matt? Scones—?"

Lovino surrendered his hands in mock-defeat. "Oh, don't even bother, Toni. He will literally eat anything you put in front of him. It's disgusting."

Matthew frowned and stuck out his tongue, coated in jam. Lovino cringed: "Gross!" Matthew laughed, and said: "Thank-you for breakfast, Antonio."

"My pleasure," said the Spaniard, and meant it.

"So," he added deviously, saddling up beside Matthew to grab a croissant, "did you have a good night?"

"Subtle, Toni," Lovino criticized, but he, too, was grinning curiously at Matthew.

Matthew swallowed, wiped his face, and shrugged. "Yes, it was good," he said cavalierly, dropping a serviette by accident. The moment he bent over to retrieve it, his legs buckled and a high-pitched yelp escaped him: "Ouch!

"Okay..." he admitted, grabbing the countertop for support, "it was really good."

Antonio threw his head back and laughed.

Lovino's grin was saucy. "Bit sore today, Mattie?"

Matthew blushed. "Maybe I'll just go take a shower..."

"Yes, you do that," Lovino said, wagging his finger like a disappointed house-mother.

Matthew raised a finger to Lovino, too, but it was only one digit. He closed the washroom door on Antonio's wolf-howl and a moment later the shower started.

Lovino was still snickering, secretly happy for his roommate—the sparkle in the boy's eyes was more telling than even his bashful smile—when his gaze landed, again, on Arthur.

Okay, something's definitely wrong, he guessed. The Arthur who nagged his little cousin to wear a coat and ordered his contacts for him would never just sit idly by while the boy's sex-life was under attack. Lovino had half-expected Arthur to chime in with something embarrassingly parental, like: "I hope he wore a condom!"—a genuine concern disguised as a joke—but he hadn't. He hadn't made a peep. Lovino wondered if he had even heard, so lost did Arthur look sitting alone at the window with an untouched cup of take-away tea.

With a look he excused himself from Antonio, who was finishing Matthew's danish, and crossed the flat.

"Hey," he said, gently tapping Arthur's shoulder, "are you okay?"

Arthur nodded, his eyes focused on the street below. It was a clear dismissal, but Lovino deliberately ignored it.

"Arthur," he said, sterner, "Toni's being really nice and you just walked away."

"Sorry."

"What's wrong?" Lovino persisted, leaning in, trying to see Arthur's face. "Did something happen last night?"

Finally Arthur faced him, his green eyes raw with fatigue and licked with something teetering on the edge of anger. Lovino stepped back. Arthur's gaze swivelled to Antonio and back, indicating that he didn't want to say in front of the Spaniard. "Later," he promised.

Lovino nodded in mute agreement and watched Arthur retreat into his dark bedroom, leaving his tea behind.

"Lovi—?"

Lovino faced Antonio, putting Arthur's troubles temporarily out-of-mind. "Mm hmm?"

He was surprised to see the Spaniard looking uncertain, his fingers absently picking at the fraying sleeves of his cardigan. He cast a cautious glance between the bedroom door and the washroom door, calculating how long they had to be alone. "Can we talk for a minute?"

Lovino's chest instinctively tightened. "Sure," he said, inviting Antonio to the sunken couch. "What is it? Is it about what I told you last night?" he worried, afraid he had misread Antonio's reaction; afraid it really was too much for him to accept. Who wants a boyfriend who won't put-out?

"No, no—I mean, kind of..."

Antonio's dithering didn't inspire confidence in Lovino, whose heart started to pound.

"You shared a really personal secret with me last night," Antonio acknowledged, "and I'm really glad you did. It makes me happy knowing you trust me that much. So, I think it's only fair that I share a secret with you."

"Okay—?"

"Lovi," said Antonio seriously. He took Lovino's hand and held it between both of his. For one wild moment, Lovino thought he was going to propose and his heart jumped into his throat. Then Antonio said: "I want you to know that what I'm about to tell you won't change anything between us. I love you, cariño. And that's why you deserve the truth. See, I haven't been completely honestly about who I am. I mean, I'm still me, of course, but I... uh..."

"Toni?" Lovino prompted after a long pause. "You're kind of freaking me out. What is it you want to tell me?"

"I told you I was unemployed, but that was a lie," Antonio admitted shamefully. "The truth is—"

Oh God, I knew it, he's a criminal. He's a drug-dealer. He works for the mafia. He's going to tell me he's killed people. Oh God, I'm dating another psychopath—

"—I'm a police detective," Antonio said.

Lovino froze. "Eh—?"

Antonio hung his head in apology. "Ah! I'm so sorry I couldn't tell you sooner, Lovi. I wanted to, honest, but the reason you and I met is because my partners and I are working a case involving Club 69, and, until recently, it was too dangerous for us to reveal our identities. I'm sorry, cariño. I—"

"Wait," Lovino interrupted. He pulled his hand out of Antonio's. "Your partners—? Francis and Gilbert?" he guessed, his brain reeling as the puzzle pieced together. "Do Art and Matt know?"

"Arthur does. He's known since before our first date," Antonio confessed, looking so guilty, so repentant that he resembled a puppy who had messed on the floor. "But Matt doesn't know. I don't think Gil wants to tell him. Not yet, okay?"

Lovino nodded in absent agreement, a look of incredulity on his face. "So, you're, like... investigating us?"

"Not you, the club. But we're done now. Done being undercover, anyway. That's why I can finally tell you. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you sooner," he repeated, "but it was for your own safety, I promise. I love you, Lovino," he added earnestly. "Me being a detective doesn't change that."

"A detective," Lovino parroted, feeling dazed. "You're an undercover police detective—?

"Oh, thank God!" he gasped, and lurched forward into Antonio's arms. "I thought you were, like, a mafia hit-man or something!" he said, hugging the Spaniard. "Police detective is so much better!"

He felt Antonio's body respond to his touch, his warm hands coming up to rest on his back to return the hug.

"You thought I was a criminal and you still agreed to date me—?" he asked; half-joking, half-horrified.

Lovino relaxed, feeling as if a weight had been lifted. "I think we've already established that I don't have the best taste in men."

Antonio was quiet for a moment, thinking of Sadik. Lovino knew this because the Spaniard's arms tightened protectively. It was nice.

"Hey, Toni?"

"Yeah?"

Lovino pulled back so that he and Antonio were face-to-face. "Don't ever lie to me again, okay?"

Antonio's puppy-dog eyes sparkled in apology, then resolve. "I promise," he said.

Lovino kissed him, letting his actions say what his words had not. I forgive you, whispered a soft brush of his fingers. I trust you, pressed his lips, yielding to the Spaniard's tongue. I want you, breathed a husky sigh of arousal.

"So..." he mused, a spicy seductress in his soft voice. He was sitting on Antonio's lap, now. "I'm dating a cop, hmm? Does that mean you have a uniform?" he whispered in Antonio's ear.

"Uh, yeah—?"

Lovino looped his arms suggestively around Antonio's neck, his fingers in his hair. He pressed his forehead to Antonio's, peering down at him, and said:

"Can I wear it?"

Antonio grinned. "You certainly can."

GILBERT

Gilbert's fingers flew over the keyboard as he composed a strongly-worded e-mail to a certain slothful secretary at the city's only French high-school, who had promised to send him electronic confirmation of his request for transcripts by Monday morning, but whom had failed to do so. And Gilbert—not a particularly patient man—felt the need to remind her of the verbal contract they had made. And—send! he thought in petty gratification.

(You really don't know the meaning of subtle, do you, Gil? said Francis' voice in his head.)

The feeling dissolved the moment he returned his attention to a large, password-protected file on his laptop, which contained sensitive information that he had been collecting for years. It wasn't something he should have been working on in the office, but lately it had been nagging at him almost constantly, ever since he had been assigned to—or rather, begged for—the Club 69 case. There's something here, something that I keep missing, he thought, glaring at the screen. It wasn't something he should have been working on in public, but he was a Sergeant. No one was going to reprimand him for using his personal laptop at work. Besides, everyone knew not to disturb Gilbert Beilschmidt when he was concentrating—

"Hola, Gil!"

Gilbert quickly closed the file, leaving nothing on his desktop except for a picture of his dogs. He leant back and adopted a casual posture as Antonio approached.

"You're two hours late," he said.

Antonio shrugged. "You going to write me up, Sergeant?"

Gilbert glared; he hated when his friends called his bluff. He could, should, write Antonio up for his habitual tardiness, but he never would, and both of his friends knew that and took advantage of it. He could hear the Chief's tut in his head, saying: You're too lenient, Beilschmidt. You'll never make Inspector by the time you're thirty if you keep playing favourites with your crew. Gilbert knew this, and it irked him, but he also couldn't bring himself to pull rank on his only two friends in the department. He didn't want to go back to being the loner workaholic he had been before Francis and Antonio joined the force: effective, but too intimidating and unapproachable. The Beilschmidt family was well-known and well-respected in the city. They were rich and powerful, and had such a good, clean reputation that they were positively boring to talk about, so the press usually left them alone. The only day they had ever been in the tabloids was the day Gilbert enrolled in the police academy and announced his intention to become a detective.

"A detective?" the reports had gaped. "What about your father's company?"

"No comment," Gilbert had said, trying to get around them.

"You have opportunities others can only dream of! Why throw it all away?" they asked eagerly.

"No comment," Gilbert repeated, and then walked forcefully through them, breaking a camera in the process. (He had always hated being photographed.)

He had never told anyone his reason for joining the police force, though Ludwig had guessed—guessed, but never voiced—and he never would. The evidence living in the brains of his laptop would get him fired, if not sentenced to prison if anyone ever reported it. It was the reason he worked so hard, working even on his days off, ignoring social camaraderie and instead single-mindedly focused on becoming the best. He pushed himself toward promotion after promotion, going from cadet to constable to detective to sergeant in record-breaking time, because the higher he rose the more he could do. His colleagues-turned-underlings gossiped that it was his family's influence that buoyed him, but they were wrong. Gilbert's father had never approved of his choice to join the police force, though he had never said as much in words. On the day of Gilbert's graduation from the academy, he had clapped his son's shoulder, and said: "If this is the path you have chosen, I expect you to reach the top."

Chief of Police, that was the goal. If Gilbert wouldn't rule the family company, then his father expected him to rule the entire police force instead.

Francis had joined the force because he had always wanted to help people. Antonio had wanted—needed—to help himself. But Gilbert—? Gilbert's reasons were entirely selfish. And he prayed no one ever found out.

Knowing that, he didn't wonder why his colleagues had never invited him out for after-work drinks. He never worried about sitting alone, eating alone, being alone despite the people surrounding him. He gave orders, but didn't really talk to anyone. He had had no one to confide in, no one to be friends with—until Francis joined the force.

Gilbert would never forget that day. Francis had waltzed in, a smile on his pretty face, thrown his overcoat on the desk beside Gilbert's, and said: "Lucky me, I get to work beside the most gorgeous man in the office."

Gilbert had glared at Francis, thinking it a cruel joke, and he immediately decided to dislike the Frenchman. But then Francis' smile softened and his eyes revealed a shyness that undermined his cocky charm.

"I don't know anyone here," he admitted. "Would you like to have lunch with me? I'm Francis Bonnefoi," he added, holding out his hand.

Francis later told Gilbert that, on his first day, he had been warned off of him by the other detectives, who expressed condolences that Francis had been assigned the desk beside the stoic German's.

"They must have thought you were suicidal when you introduced yourself to me," Gilbert said.

"Maybe," Francis agreed, "but it just made me want to be your friend all the more."

"Why?" Gilbert asked, genuinely curious.

Francis had smiled. "Because you looked as lonely as I felt, and everyone needs a friend."

So, yeah. Maybe Gilbert showed Francis and Antonio a bit of favouritism, but he didn't care. Let the gossips gossip. Let them think Antonio was his pet; let them think he was fucking Francis. He didn't care. It was worth having genuine friends.

Instead of reprimanding Antonio's tardiness like he was supposed to, Gilbert merely crossed his arms, raised an eyebrow, and asked:

"Weren't you wearing those clothes yesterday?"

"I spent the night at Lovi's."

"A good night?"

"Yeah," said the Spaniard, starry-eyed. "It was really good."

"Hey!" Gilbert called when Antonio walked away to his adjacent desk. "That's it? You're not going to ask me how my night was?"

"Oh, I don't need to," Antonio grinned. "I saw Matt this morning. He's pretty sore."

Gilbert's guilt was short-lived, because—fuck yeah!

"Oh, is he—?" he asked, but his nonchalance was undermined by the goofy grin that stole over his proud face.

Antonio rolled his eyes. "I think the hickey on your neck speaks for itself, Gil. I told you he liked you," he said as Gilbert tugged up his collar. "All of that worrying did nothing but save you a month of sex."

"Did you just fucking I-told-you-so me?" Gilbert asked, a warning in his voice.

Antonio stuck his tongue out, then shifted the topic-of-conversation. "Have you seen Fran yet? I tried calling him earlier, but I got his voicemail."

"Oh, yeah," said Gilbert, his smile falling. "He didn't have a good night. Arthur dumped him."

"What?"

Antonio leapt up so fast, it knocked his wheeled desk-chair backwards. "Arthur dumped Francis?" he yelled, aghast. "What the fuck happened?"

Gilbert waved for Antonio to sit down, conscious of him making a scene. "I don't know. I saw Fran first thing this morning. He just said that Arthur broke it off last night, and he didn't want to talk about it."

"No," Antonio said firmly, stabbing his index-finger at Gilbert, the messenger. "Nobody just breaks it off with my best friend for no fucking reason. Francis Bonnefoi is a goddamned treasure, and Arthur-fucking-Kirkland should feel fucking privileged to go out with him. Fuck!" he cursed loudly, drawing attention. "I bought that bastard scones!"

"Toni, calm down," Gilbert ordered. "It doesn't matter what happened, okay? It's none of our business. If one person wants to breakup, you breakup, that's how it works."

Antonio righted his desk-chair with more force than necessary and slumped down into it. "English bastard," he mumbled, grabbing a squishy stress-ball for each hand. "What kind of blind, heartless dumbass do you have to be to breakup with Fran?"

A moment later, Francis walked into the office and Antonio sat straight up, like a hound at attention. If he'd had a tail, it would have wagged tentatively in concern.

"Bonjour, Toni," said the Frenchman in greeting.

"Hola, Paco..." Antonio returned, smiling meekly.

Gilbert sighed. There were only two times when Antonio forgot himself and called Francis Paco: when he was really happy, or when he was really upset. The nickname seemed to recollect a safer, simpler time in his memory, which comforted the Spaniard in times of stress. "It's just a pet-name from high-school," Antonio had dismissed when Gilbert asked. But the way Antonio's face softened when he spoke it made Gilbert think it wasn't just anything. It was something important.

"Uh, Gil told me what happened," Antonio said to Francis. "Are you okay?"

Francis' reply was indulgent, but stern in warning: "I'm fine, chéri, but I'd rather not talk about it right now.

"We have a professional development seminar in five-minutes," he added. "I thought you might forget, Toni, so I printed the agenda for you."

Antonio nodded in thanks—he had forgotten—and took the folder from Francis' hand. Then Francis walked away.

Gilbert waited until he was gone, then said to Antonio: "I-told-you-so," but there was no humour in his tone.

ARTHUR

It's later," said Lovino, rapping his knuckles needlessly on Arthur's bedroom door. Needless, because he had already invited himself inside.

Arthur was curled beneath the duvet. He hadn't slept well last night—he kept getting up, craving cigarettes—and now he had a pulsing headache and felt miserably tired. He didn't want to talk, least of all about his failed date.

"Francis and I are done," he reported shortly, "now please leave."

"You broke-up with Francis?" Lovino asked, failing to hide his surprise.

Arthur huffed. "No, I didn't break-up with him. You can't break-up with someone whom you were never in a relationship with."

"Oh, come on, Art—"

"It's done," Arthur repeated firmly. "Now, if you don't mind, I have a raging headache and would like to go to sleep."

Arthur heard Lovino's footsteps, not in retreat but walking forward. A moment later, he felt the mattress sink beneath the Italian's added weight. Lovino's effeminately small body didn't take up as much space as Matthew's, but Arthur still felt crowded. He tried to ignore the rude invasion of personal-space—physically and emotionally—hoping to outlast Lovino's patience, but his stubborn housemate didn't give him the chance.

"Why did you end it with Francis?"

"Because it wasn't working," Arthur replied, hoping that a short, blunt answer would discourage additional questions. But it only encouraged Lovino's sarcasm:

"Oh, yeah, I could see that. I mean, the only times you were ever happy was when you came back from being with Francis, so yeah. I totally understand that it wasn't working between you."

Lovino's judgemental tone poked Arthur's temper, made worse by the fact that he knew the Italian was right. He had been happy with Francis. Bloody-hell. He had felt safe and loved, valued as a human-being for the first time in his life, but—

"Happy doesn't pay the rent."

Lovino exhaled; it sounded disappointed. "You have to stop putting prices on everything, Art. That's how you end up like Mikkel Densen."

The sudden insult hit like an uppercut, and, for a moment, Arthur was at a loss trying to concoct a defence. You just don't understand, he thought of Lovino, who didn't seem to care about money, despite his gleeful shopping sprees. And Matthew cared even less (though, Arthur suspected that his restraint was a case of you can't miss what you've never had). They both acknowledged that money was needed to buy things, important to their wellbeing, but neither of them worried about it—obsessed about it—like Arthur did. Which is precisely why I have to! he thought, blaming them for his miserly habits; blaming them for his self-sacrifices. If I don't take care of us, who will?

"Why didn't you tell me I was dating a cop?" Lovino asked, changing the topic when Arthur didn't reply.

"Ugh," he moaned, burying his head.

"I'm interpreting that noise as an apology," Lovino said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"They asked me not to."

"So? You still should've told me."

Arthur lifted his head enough to look over-the-shoulder at Lovino. "Why?"

"Because we're friends."

"Are we?" Arthur asked frankly. "Or are we just housemates by necessity?"

To his surprise, Lovino looked genuinely stung by the question.

"You know," he said, shaking his head, "I've met a lot of prickly people in my life, but you, Arthur Kirkland, take the gold medal. Of course we're fucking friends," he growled, shimmying under the blankets beside Arthur and pulling the resistant Englishman into a forced hug. "God," he said in exasperation, "it's no wonder you ran away from Francis. If you can't even tell me your feelings, how the hell do you expect to tell him?"

"I don't have feelings for Francis," Arthur lied, trying to escape the Italian's clutches.

"Sure you don't," Lovino mock-agreed. "And Romeo didn't love Juliette."

"What? That's not even relevant!" Arthur argued. "Romeo and Juliette is a tragedy!"

Lovino squeezed him, and said: "So are you."

Arthur went limp in Lovino's embrace. He was quiet for a long time. Blessedly, so was Lovino. He just held Arthur like a blanket—or straightjacket, he thought—as if he thought the Englishman in desperate need of human contact. Eventually, he said:

"I need a fag. Open the window, would you?"

Lovino let go of him. "Matt will literally murder you if he finds out," he said, watching Arthur pull a packet of cigarettes out of his pillowcase.

Arthur lit one and took a long drag. The smoke coiled around his head when he exhaled. "Well, don't tell him and he won't find out."

Lovino hesitated for a moment, then ceded. "Fine," he agreed. "But on one condition. Give me one."

He grabbed the packet, but it was empty.

"Go buy your own," Arthur said. "And open the bloody window."

Lovino grudgingly sat up and pushed the stiff window open. On his way back down into the blankets, he stole the cigarette right out of Arthur's mouth and inhaled deeply, his eyes closing in ecstasy. "Oh God," he sighed in relief.

They had both agreed a year ago not to waste rent money on cigarettes and had both been regretting it ever since. Matthew had been the only happy one. His mother had died of lung cancer.

"Don't you guys get enough second-hand smoke from the club?" he argued fervently, sounding like a public service announcement.

Arthur always shook his head, too annoyed—and ashamed—to tell Matthew that second-hand smoke was a torture, not a relief.

(It was fortunate that, in a city of smokers, Matthew had chosen a boyfriend who seemed to abstain. Francis and Antonio often left for cigarette breaks, oblivious to Arthur and Lovino's cravings, but Gilbert never joined them.)

"Oi, give me that," Arthur said now, but Lovino dodged him and took another drag.

"Nope, it's the last one, we're sharing," he said.

Arthur frowned irritably. "And why the bloody-hell should we do that?"

Lovino cracked open one gold-ringed eye and looked sideways at Arthur, the cigarette still lodged between his lips. "Because," he said, smiling self-importantly, "like it or not, Art, we're friends."

Arthur rolled his eyes, but didn't deny it. He took the cigarette from Lovino and finished it.

"Alright, friend," he said after a minute, balling-up the empty packet and bouncing it off Lovino's nose, "then the next pack's on you."

GILBERT

Gilbert glowered at the perky instructor, who had just forced them all out of their seats for the interactive portion of the seminar, which was on teamwork. He hated federally mandated courses at the best of times, but to have to attend one on teamwork—? What a fucking waste of my time, he thought irritably. He, Francis, and Antonio had the highest statistics on the force, making them the most effective team according to analysis. The numbers don't lie. I don't need some professional development specialist—he glared at her—to tell me how to work with my best friends. We get the job done, and we don't have to talk about our feelings to do it.

"Gil—?" said Antonio, then let himself fall back easily into Gilbert's outstretched arms.

"Oh, look at that!" Gilbert said sarcastically, "I didn't let him fall to his untimely death on the freshly waxed floor!"

The instructor shot him a dirty look, but didn't comment.

Antonio laughed, looking up at Gilbert from upside-down. "Come on, Gil, trust-falls aren't that bad."

"They're pointless," Gilbert argued. "They don't predict how someone will act in the field, in real danger."

"Well, just ten minutes until lunch," Francis said in appeasement, then stepped into position. "Ready, Toni?"

Antonio hopped to his feet and nodded. "I won't let you down, Fran. And you know why? Because I'm not a selfish dick, who—"

"Toni? I really don't want to talk about it," Francis said for the umpteenth time. Then he fell backwards into Antonio's arms.

Antonio squeezed him in a backwards hug before letting him go.

"Your turn, Gil."

"Hurry up, she's watching us. Do it and we get a perfect score."

Gilbert stripped off his jacket and rolled his shoulders. "Fine," he grumbled. He positioned himself in front of Francis and leant slowly back—

Just jump, Gilly! I'll catch you, I promise! I'm not going to let you fall!

—then jerked forward with a gasp.

"What was that?" Antonio criticised. "You barely tipped backwards."

"Are you okay?" Francis asked, frowning.

"Yeah," Gilbert said, shaking the voice from his head; shoving it back into the recesses of his memory. "Just let me try again."

He looked back to be sure Francis was there, his arms held out, then let himself fall—

"Gil!" Antonio complained when Gilbert's foot stepped back to catch his balance. "She's watching us. You're going to get us in trouble. Just let Fran catch you."

"I'm trying," Gilbert said through grit teeth.

"Do you want Toni to catch you instead?" Francis offered. "Or, both of us?"

"No, it's fine." Gilbert shook his head. "I can do it this time. Ready?"

"Yes," said Antonio flatly when Gilbert—again—caught himself. "Are you?"

"Don't you trust us, Gil?" Francis asking, looking hurt.

"Of course I do!" Gilbert snapped, harsher than he meant to. "It's just a stupid reflex, okay? I'm just too well-trained," he joked, forcing a laugh.

"Is there a problem, gentleman?" asked the instructor. It was then that Gilbert realized his team was the last to be dismissed for lunch. "Sergeant?"

"Whatever," Gilbert shrugged. "I can't fall on purpose, okay? It's basic self-preservation! Can we go now?"

She cocked her head, looking at him in pity. "You don't trust your teammates to catch you?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake—Look, I'd never need my teammates to catch me, because I don't fucking fall, okay?"

"Gil," said Francis, laying a placating hand on the German's arm.

"People don't catch me, I catch them! That's my fucking job!"

"Gil."

Gilbert unclenched his coiled fists, ashamed of letting his temper—his panic—get the better of him. "Sorry," he muttered to the instructor. Then he looked at his friends, silently conveying the same.

Antonio smiled in reassurance. Francis rubbed his arm.

"Sergeant," she said, making a note. "I want you to book an appointment with the department physician."

"I just had a physical," Gilbert argued. "I don't need another—"

"It wasn't a suggestion, Sergeant," she said, and walked away.

"Come on," said Francis, letting him go. "Let's get lunch."

Gilbert nodded and turned to grab his coat.

Trust me, Gilly! I'm not going to let you fall! said Mikkel's voice in his head.

ANTONIO

Antonio sat across the table from Francis in the trio's favourite café, picking at the sleeves of his cardigan beneath the tablecloth. The waiter was a college student who knew them well by now, and whom they all playfully flirted with in a plutonic way, but Antonio barely nodded in reply to his greeting. He was too focused on Francis, wondering what his friend was feeling and thinking, and worrying whether or not if he was okay. Francis was much subtler in his romantic feelings than either of his friends—much to Gilbert's embarrassment—but Antonio knew without being told that he had liked Arthur a lot. On the nights he and Francis had stayed late at the office, working on the case, they had gotten terribly distracted talking about their respective partners, which dissolved into shameless gushing on Antonio's part, and a kind of serene happiness on Francis'. Antonio had felt like they were two teenagers again, gossiping about their dates, and yet secretly thinking that no one would ever be good enough for his friend. Francis Bonnefoi is a goddamn treasure! he had said, and meant it. There was no one in the world Antonio loved or trusted more, and he felt scorned on Francis behalf that someone like Arthur couldn't see what he had thrown away.

Fran is falling in love with you, he thought to a figment-Arthur. And you don't even know what that means.

"Toni, chéri," said Francis kindly, "stop staring at me, I'm fine."

No, you're not, he knew, but bowed his head bashfully, ashamed of making his friend uncomfortable.

The secret truth was, Antonio felt on-edge whenever Francis was upset. It was unfair to place such a burden on his oldest, dearest friend, but he needed Francis to be strong and stable and happy, because it made him feel less anxious. The police force gave Antonio a routine, and Gilbert gave him an outlet, but it was Francis who gave him the constant feeling of security he needed to function. Francis was his rock.

As a change-of-topic, he said: "I told Lovi about us, that we're detectives."

Gilbert's fork clattered to the tabletop. "What? Why?"

Antonio shrugged. "Because it doesn't matter anymore. We won't be going back to Club 69 undercover, and I hated lying to him."

"Ah, fuck," Gilbert cursed. "Lovino can't keep his damn mouth shut, he's going to tell Matt."

"No, he won't. I told him not to."

"You should tell Mathieu, Gil," Francis advised. "There's no danger in anyone knowing us, now."

"Yes, there is!"

Gilbert seemed to realize his mistake, because he quickly added: "My job works differently than yours. I'm supposed to be invisible, remember? No one's supposed to know who I am."

"That pertains to criminals, Gil, not your boyfriend."

"No. Matt's still too close to the case we're working," Gilbert dismissed.

"The case we're working, or the case you're working?" Francis dared. "Come on, Gil, we're your partners. Do you really think we don't know about your side-project?"

"We don't know what it is," Antonio added in reassurance, because Gilbert's face had gone white-er, "but we know it's something you've been working on for a long time. We know it's something important."

"You don't have to tell us," Francis said, "but, chéri, we're a little concerned about you. You're working too much again, and today you yelled during a work seminar. We just want to know that you're okay?"

"I'm fine," said Gilbert, a moment too late to be honest. "I've just got a lot on my mind."

"You should take some holidays over Christmas," Antonio suggested. "You haven't taken a holiday in forever, you must have a pile of days saved up."

Gilbert exhaled: "Pft, what would I even do?"

"Spend time with Mathieu and not feel guilty about it—?"

Antonio was happy—and amazed—to see that the mere mention of Matthew put Gilbert at-ease, like playing a beast a lullaby. His posture relaxed and he retrieved his fork. Francis wasn't the only one who had been hooked by a pretty Kirkland boy, it seemed. The difference was, Matthew actually seemed to be good for Gilbert. Unlike Arthur, he thought bitterly, whom Francis had obviously lost sleep over.

"Yeah, okay," Gilbert said thoughtfully, smiling absently at the waiter when their entrées arrived. "That's not a bad idea. Do you think Matt will want to—?"

He stopped, because both Francis and Antonio were staring at him doubtlessly, like: Are you kidding?

"Yes," Francis answered the unfinished query, "I very much think that Mathieu will want to spend Christmas with you."

Antonio nodded. "Gil, if there's one thing in your life you don't have to worry about, it's Matt liking you."

Gilbert didn't reply, but he smiled into his entrée.

Antonio resisted the urge to tease him, knowing that Gilbert would only deny it if he did. Oh, Gil, he thought, it's obvious you've fallen head-over-heels for that boy, why not just admit it?

"Wait," Gilbert said suddenly, his happy smile yielding to panic. "Does this mean I have to get him a gift?"

Francis sighed; Antonio just stared, wondering how such a brilliant detective could fail to grasp something so painfully obvious.

"Of course it does!" they said in union.

MATTHEW

LATER

It was horrible," Matthew said when asked how his night was. "A big fight broke-out and one of the dancers had to go to the ER; twelve people got thrown-out—twelve! At least the Manager wasn't there. He would've been angry at me for wearing my glasses to work. I'm not allowed to," he reminded Gilbert, when the German complimented the frames on his face. Gilbert rolled his eyes and muttered, "stupid." Matthew chuckled and leant back in the passenger-seat with a tired sigh, enjoying the feel of the car's heat and the roughness of Gilbert's hand on his bare legs.

Despite Matthew worrying that it was a huge inconvenience, Gilbert had been waiting to collect him after his shift at the club. "My boyfriend's not taking the fucking bus home," he said, disregarding the time, which was half-two in the morning, and ignoring Matthew's feeble protests. Matthew, who was secretly pleased by—and attracted to—the German's brash yet chivalrous nature. He couldn't deny that the downtown core scared him after dark, it always had; especially the district Club 69 was located in, but his fears seemed petty when Gilbert was near. He felt bad about the late-hour, but was too grateful for his boyfriend's stubbornness to argue.

"Do you have to work over Christmas?" Gilbert asked, driving one-handed.

"No, actually," Matthew replied. "Weird fact about Mikkel Densen: he really likes Christmas. He completely closes the club and pays us all half-wages for two weeks while he takes his pets on holiday."

"His pets—?"

"Oh," Matthew laughed, "yeah, that's what we call his two favourites, Jaguar and Porsche. I don't know what their real names are," he added, anticipating Gilbert's next query. "I don't think anyone does, not even the Manager. Mikkel's really protective of them."

"Where do they go?" Gilbert asked. "On holiday, I mean."

Matthew shrugged. "I don't know. I've never been invited," he joked. "Somewhere in Denmark, maybe—?"

Gilbert grunted, distracted.

It was during this lull that Matthew finally took notice of his surroundings. He hadn't realized how long they had been driving for, too preoccupied—too happy—talking to his boyfriend, but the crowdedness of the city had fallen away, yielding to spacious properties with mature trees and wrought-iron fences. As the Mercedes slowed, leaving the quiet highway and easing into an old residential community, Matthew found himself admiring the pristine streets and old manor houses. Even at half-two in the morning, the place looked safe; the streets empty, because the residents were all asleep in their beds where they belonged.

"Gil—?" he said, guessing the answer even before he asked: "Where are we?"

Gilbert didn't reply until the Mercedes was parked in the driveway of a big, gated house. "My place," he said.

Matthew stared at the house—bigger than the entire apartment-complex he lived in—and then at Gilbert. He had known that the Beilschmidt family was wealthy, but—Holy shit.

"I'll take you back downtown if you want," Gilbert offered, "but... do you want to come in?"

Do you want to stay the night? asked Gilbert's red eyes.

Matthew smiled. "Yeah," he said. "I really do."