Epitome of Awesome

Chapter 9: Recital

He looked down again at his phone, wondering if Ludwig had seen his message. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or his own emotions, but a feeling of idleness of the depressive sort spread through him. The buzz of the room filled his thoughts, rendering him incapable of formulating much thought beyond breathing and sitting up straight in his chair. He frequented this bar often enough that the bartender knew that tonight was not a night for joking. It was a pensive night. Gilbert swirled the bottle in his hand, then took another gulp. He drank with the hope of staying sober enough to help Francis through but drunk enough to forget his own worries. His back hunched, he leaned over the counter, the pocket of his shirt gently touching the polished wood. His head turned a fraction to the left before quickly returning to the bottle in front of him. Should he break the silence between them?

Next to him, Francis held an empty wine glass in his hand, staring at the stronger drinks behind the counter. Gilbert wondered if he wished to drink that stuff - Francis always stuck to his wine - or if his mind was lost somewhere else. And suddenly Gilbert felt very lost and very guilty. He didn't know what to say. What could he say? I'm sorry that you didn't get a chance to marry the love of your life because you wanted to make me feel better? She would have died anyway? Damn' it. Wasn't Francis supposed to be comforting him? That's why Feli brought them together...

Gilbert cleared his throat loudly. Francis' eyes moved to him, but otherwise the Frenchman continued to sit in silence. "So, uh," Gilbert started, "I hear that you made a new recipe... it, uh, involves raspberries?" Francis nodded. "When can I place an order? I mean, raspberries... awesome colour, you know?" he grinned.

Francis snorted. "Creepy colour. I'm not making it again."

"Weren't raspberries Jeanne's favourite?" he dropped casually, trying to continue the conversation. Yet by the time he had finished uttering the last syllable, he was beside himself with regret. He had not meant to mention her. He watched cautiously for the Frenchman's reaction, but if Francis was perturbed, he did not show it. "No," the Frenchman replied easily. "I just don't need your ego growing when the sales go up, and you claim that it somehow has to do with the raspberry-red colour of your eyes being sexy."

"So, you're not gonna make me raspberry cheesecake because you wouldn't want it to outsell your blueberry one so you can keep saying that chicks dig your blue eyes and think my red eyes are freaky?"

"Peut-être," the Frenchman grinned slyly. He drank more of the wine from his glass.

"That's kind of dumb, you know. That's like saying that chicks dig longer baguettes because -" Francis laughed. "You think I'm joking, but -" Gilbert paused, then his eyes lit up with mischief. "Do you think we could convince Ludwig that it's a scientific study and have him do it?"

"I don't think your brother is that oblivious."

"Bet?" Gilbert shot, extending out his hand.

"Fifteen euros?"

"No," Gilbert said adamantly, taking back his hand to clasp his beer and take another swig. Francis frowned. "You'll start making those raspberry cheesecakes." Gilbert smirked at his conditions as Francis bit his lip.

"Thirty euros?" Francis said hopefully.

"Scared that I'm really that much better, Franny?" Gilbert goaded him. And then Gilbert realized that he was wrong. Francis didn't take the bait. "Forty." And Francis always took the bait, even if he knew it was silly and stupid. Gilbert stared at him.

"How long are you going to keep lying to yourself?" Gilbert asked, looking down at the head of the bottle. It was nearly done. He wished he could drink another. Maybe if he was drunk Francis would forgive him for being rude and asking all the wrong - but right - questions.

"How long are you?" Francis shot back, immediately understanding what Gilbert meant. "Feliciano brought me here to comfort you, and he said that something was seriously wrong. Yet you haven't mentioned a words about what's bothering you."

Gilbert opened his mouth, ready to retort, but seemed to think better of it. "Then I guess we're both hypocrites," Gilbert said simply, chugging down the rest of his beer. They sat in silence again, both staring across the counter. Then Gilbert sniggered. "Heh, how long are you," he giggled. Francis turned to stare at him. "How long are you," Gilbert repeated, his face flushing. Francis started to smile, but then stopped himself, shaking his head and turning back around to the drinks and making Gilbert feel even worse. It was his own personal hell: to be in a place that was supposed to be merry, violently and forgetfully happy and yet have it be so utterly silent and tense. The alcohol was getting to him. All those different drinks, and all to lead to the same sad drunkenness, Gilbert wondered. All those different choices that they each could have made, but what difference would it have made in the end. They all die. Everyone dies. Alexander. Romulus. Jeanne. Francis would die some day. So would Ludwig. And so would he. God, what would happen then? The white light people talked about in films? Burning for all eternity? Having to admit that some higher being existed, that life had been some sort of test he had completely bombed? Shit.

He didn't know if what the beer or the atmosphere, but he suddenly felt empty. Hollowed out by the realization of something he couldn't quite describe. He allowed himself to settle back into the buzz. As the activity in his frontal lobe withered, he became aware of the sound of the piano playing. Playing beautifully, too beautiful for some amateur at his first gig. He turned his head to the corner where the piano was.

The hair struck him first, that awkward little curl that stood out. Frowning, he lifted himself slightly, squinting, so that he could see the face of the pianist. He took a last swig of beer and looked again. He felt a smile creep across his face. He began to chuckle until he was roaring with laughter. Francis stared at him, bewildered by the change in mood. "What?" the Frenchman asked. "What's so funny?"

Slowly, Gilbert stopped, turning to grin at his friend. "Life is absurd," Gilbert smirked, pushing off the counter to stand and walk to the corner. Francis hesitated for a moment, looking as though he might stay because he was still angry, then followed him. Gilbert took a route that made him look as though he was headed to the restroom (also in the corner of the bar) though such precaution was unnecessary. Roderich was too focused on his playing to realize that two old frenemies were making their way towards him. "Mon Dieu!" Francis exclaimed as he saw the Austrian. Gilbert quickly shot him a death glare. Francis shut up immediately. "Don't do anything terribly stupid!" Francis whispered. Gilbert rolled his eyes at him.

"When do I ever, Franny," Gilbert grinned wolfishly. The Frenchman stayed several paces behind, shaking his head in a resigned manner. Gilbert approached the piano, but stayed several paces behind, standing behind Roderich. The Prussian recognized this piece. Roderich would finish soon. He loved watching Roderich play anyway, the way that the Roderich touched each key. The white and black bars angling down, then gliding back up, only to nudge down by the tips of Roderich's perfectly manicured fingers. The Austrian loved this piece, Gilbert knew. He played it with his eyes closed, his head tilting slightly as he pressed down on the pedals.

Gilbert leaned against the wall. He had not seen Roderich in many years, not since the dinner he, Elizabeta, and Roderich had shared in Vienna three years before. The night that Elizabeta confessed that she had chosen Roderich over him. Frankly, he did not really know the man. He had seen him several times before the incident in the restaurant, and after the incident had spent much time researching on the Internet about him, trying to understand why Elizabeta had chosen Roderich. She had ruined him for the longest. But after researching about Roderich, Gilbert had to admit that the guy wasn't half-bad.

The Austrian called Vienna home but had travelled across all of Europe and some parts of the United States and Canada to play the piano. He often played at charity events but was occasionally borrowed by some orchestra or another. He came indeed from old money and owned stocks in practically every company in Europe, had powerful connections in the government, and was estimated to have a net worth of approximately fourteen million euros and a house the size of Versailles.

Three years earlier...

He remembered his outrage upon meeting the Austrian. He was so wrong for Liz, so, so wrong. The way he talked, he walked, he stood all screamed with pretentiousness and an atmosphere of an aristocrat. He stunk of old money. He stood up straight, looking down upon the world. It was so wrong. The Austrian had dressed in a nice suit with an expensive-looking silk tie. Gilbert swore he could smell the guy's hair gel. At his wrist was a thick, silver watch, an analogue watch, Gilbert noted with annoyance. Who used those things anyway? The man's only redeeming quality was the young woman that stood at his side. Liz looked beautiful. Her forest green dress emphasized the colour of her eyes and the orange flower clipped to the side of bangs went well with the thing orange watch on her wrist. Gilbert took her hand gently and kissed the top of her hand with a bow and a small smirk. Roderich looked on approvingly.

Liz flashed him a warning look then stepped back and lay a hand on her husband's chest, turning her body slightly towards him. "Roderich, dear, this is the wonderful young man who has been helping me with the designs of the house."

"Gilbert Belischmidt," Gilbert had said simply, extending his hand. Roderich gave him a limp handshake, much to Gilbert's distaste. Absently, the Prussian wondered how long Roderich would last in a paintball gun fight against him. Less than thirty seconds. His lip twitched at the thought, and he was forced to remind himself to focus.

"Roderich Edelstein," the Austrian replied. "A pleasure to meet you. Elizabeta has told me much of your work. She speaks very highly of you." The Austrian paused for a moment, staring at Gilbert's clothes. Liz had warned him that this would be a fancy place but had not mentioned that it would be so fancy that he should be wearing a suit. (Not that it would have made a difference. Gilbert did not own a suit, nor did he have the money to buy one.) Instead, Gilbert had opted to wear a sweater with a blazer and hope that the light spaghetti stain from a few years ago wouldn't be too obvious in the low lighting. Still, upon seeing Roderich's judgemental glance, a twinge of anger mixed with the dislike of Roderich. Gilbert could sense that this was going to be a long night. But the Austrian seemed to be more tactful than to point out Gilbert's appearance and merely gestured to the front desk where the hostess, a woman with pretty red hair, stood, smiling at them.

Gilbert assented and gestured for Liz to walk before them. Liz smiled at him warmly, as though thanking him for pleasing Roderich. She walked carefully to the hostess. "Good evening," the hostess greeted. "What can I -"

"Edelstein," Roderich stated firmly. Though Roderich did not notice, Gilbert glanced at him almost incredulously. Sheesh. Could have let the lady finish her sentence. Liz seemed to sense his thoughts but once again gave him a look that told him to deal with his issues quietly. She smiled at her husband, allowing her hand to be taken and Roderich to lead them all in following their waiter, a young-ish Asian man with glasses and black hair that covered most of his forehead. They sat at a fancy table, the type with multiple forks, knives, and spoons. Dang it. Art school had never prepared him for this crap. Roderich and Liz seemed to have no issue with the setting. Roderich pulled out a chair for her, and she gracefully sat down, smiling at them both. Gilbert couldn't help but smile back and sit down, feeling slightly more comfortable in her presence. He waited for Roderich to sit and begin meal preparations, taking careful notes on everything that Roderich was doing and copying it. The Austrian was oblivious to this and quickly turned his attention to the waiter,

"Good evening, miss and gentlemen," the waiter said warmly. "My name is Christian, and I'll be your waiter tonight. May I take your orders for drinks? We currently have a special on the red wine," he trailed off.

"No wine tonight," Roderich said authoritatively. Gilbert was tempted to contradict him, but his respect for Liz stopped him. "I will be taking a water, as will Elizabeta." Gilbert frowned slightly. Roderich and the waiter turned towards him. "And you, sir?" the waiter asked him.

Perfectly on cue, Gilbert stuttered, "Uh... I, um..." He hadn't even been handed a menu! Roderich stared at him, and Liz looked as though she was about to laugh. Feeling betrayed and humiliated, he muttered, "I'll take a water as well." The waiter seemed to understand his struggle for as he jotted down Gilbert's order, he mentioned quickly, "If you change your mind after looking through the menu, please don't hesitate to tell me." He handed them all menus and with another smile said, "I'll be back in a few minutes with your drinks!" Gilbert stared at the menu before him. The font was horrid Edwardian Script, only worsened by the fact that the descriptions were in size 12 font.

"See something you like?" Roderich asked kindly.

"Not yet," Gilbert replied, trying to decipher the awful writing. His dyslexia was not making this any easier - and his frustration only exacerbated the problem. His eyes flickered to Liz, pleading for help. Thankfully, she answered his call. "The butternut squash ravioli sounds good," she commented. "Or the roasted stuffed chicken breast." She smiled at him, then turned her gaze to Roderich. "What are you thinking about, darling?"

Gilbert wanted to barf - or burst out laughing - the idea of Liz calling anyone 'darling' just made him want to laugh and cry. But Roderich seemed to buy her act completely: "Hm, I am still not certain. I am considering the rack of lamb or perhaps the red angel hair pasta with grilled shrimp. I am, however, not certain that you would want the chicken breast. It's a bit much, don't you think?" He looked pointedly at Liz's protruding collar bone, as though commanding it to remain visible. Gilbert wanted to smack him, but Liz merely smiled and replied, "Of course. I did have my eye on that dress from Cyrillus for our dinner party next week." Roderich nodded approvingly. "As soon as you make up your mind, tell me, and I will have the tailor come by and adjust it just for you," he told her, returning his eyes to the menu.

Gilbert gave Liz a pained look. She shook her head slightly. "I have your drinks," the waiter's voice came. The young man lowered his arm and carefully placed the glasses of water before them. "Did you have second thoughts about your beverage?" the waiter asked Gilbert. The Prussian shook his head. "Okay," the waiter replied, looking slightly surprised. "Would you like some more time to decide on entrees, or are you all ready to order?"

"We're ready," Roderich said quickly. It occurred to Gilbert that he would likely be less annoyed with someone who spoke for the whole group if that person wasn't Roderich, but it was becoming exceedingly difficult not to just scream: "Hey, by the way, I'm having sex with your girlfriend because she wants to dump you anyway!"

"I will be taking the rack of lamb, and my fiancee will have the butternut squash ravioli."

It took Gilbert a moment to realize that the waiter had been asking him what he wanted. And for the second time that night, he looked like an idiot. "I, uh... I, I haven't made up my mind yet," Gilbert smiled tightly. The waiter seemed to realize something was off as he gave them an awkward smile, assented, and promised to come back soon, so he could gather any other orders. Roderich seemed confused by the turn of events, glancing between Gilbert and Elizabeta. Liz was looking at everyone but Gilbert. Gilbert was merely staring at a young woman he felt he no longer knew.

Suddenly, it seemed to occur to Roderich that perhaps Gilbert was just shocked by the engagement: the Austrian pleasantly commented, "Oh, yes. Elizabeta must not have informed you. As of a week ago, she and I are now engaged."

"Congratulations," Gilbert said slowly, his eyes moving from Liz to Roderich. The movement seemed to unfreeze Liz who began digging around her purse.

"Thank you. So, Mr. Beilschmidt, tell me, how do you know Elizabeta? She mentioned that you two met as young teens?" Roderich said, taking up his glass of water.

"Um, Roderich," Liz interfered. "Dear, I can't seem to find my lipstick. Would it trouble you too much to go back to the car? I hate to bother you, but I am quite frightened by the idea of it coming off while I eat and consequently looking foolish."

For a moment, Roderich was silent, still looking between the two. "Of course, dear," he finally assented, standing up from his chair. "I understand. You two must need some time to discuss this as friends." The Austrian smiled at Gilbert and quickly took his leave. At least the Austrian wasn't completely an idiot, Gilbert thought to himself numbly. Elizabeta waited until he was out the door of the restaurant to launch into her apologies.

"Gil," she pleaded, "you have to understand. He asked on the fly, and I couldn't just say no! It's not that I don't love you. I just can't abandon him when he asks me to marry him!" Gilbert glared at her. She faltered slightly, then continued with even more determination: "I'm not sorry about my choice, Gilbert. He's good for me. I have dreams beyond living poverty, you know."

"So you're doing it because I plan on being an artist and not a businessman."

"No, I just think that marriage is a huge commitment, and I know that your career plans will eventually not work for me. I would rather us not reach that point of tension," she argued.

"Then you shouldn't have lied," Gilbert snarled. Liz stared him down.

"I never lied. I do love you. Love doesn't make for a successful marriage."

"Then what does?"

"Peace between the two. Love can be for an evening; marriage is for life."

"Love can be for life."

"I doubt that," she said with a tone of finality. Gilbert noted Roderich coming back. Gilbert stood up. Liz's eyes widened. Roderich reached the table, looking more confused than ever. "Gilbert, I -" Liz cut herself off, staring uncertainly at Gilbert. Gilbert turned to Roderich. He opened his mouth but found himself speechless. What could he say? Don't trust her. I hate you. I hope you realize that she only loves you for your money. But the Prussian found himself merely muttering, "Danke," as he hurried out the restaurant, just catching a glimpse of Roderich's confused and indignant look with Elizabeta's hard line lips.

So as he stared now, three years later, at the same man he couldn't help but wonder if she was here, too. Did he want to see her? Would she avoid him, or would she pretend that nothing ever happened between them? He couldn't tell if Roderich could feel him staring, but the Austrian had no need for soon his fingers stroked the finals keys gently, allowing the music to fade into the din. No applause sounded, but Roderich did not seem to mind. As the pianist stood, Gilbert began clapping slowly and Roderich turned, surprised, to source of the applause.

Gilbert smirked at the shocked look in Roderich's eyes. But his smirk disappeared as the Austrian gave him a small smile and approached him. Arm's length away, Roderich resignedly extended his hand, "How do you do?"