Dear Journal,
I don't have much time. Roderich's going to be here any minute. I thought I should take him for coffee to apologise or something. Austrians like coffee, right? Right? I visited every tourism board online, and they all told me Vienna was famous for its coffee, but I don't know. This doesn't really seem like the kind of place that someone who wears waistcoats would frequent. More later.
Dear Journal,
I'm pretty sure it's drastically shortening my lifespan to have my heart be beating this fast. Like the heartbeat hypothesis. Anyway, not important. Roderich looked so surprised when I apologised to him, like the last thing that he'd expected to come out of my mouth was "I'm sorry." And I told him that I hadn't meant to hurt him, but that still didn't change the fact that I had, and if I ever did it again, please just tell me-I was waffling away like a total idiot, and he was just blinking at me over and over. And guess what he did next? Guess!
He smiled! He actually smiled! And he put his coffee down-he'd barely touched it, you let me down, tourist sites!-and looked at me with those gorgeous violet eyes and just kept smiling. And then he said, "I think I owe you an apology too." And I asked him why, because honestly I was just completely baffled about why he would need to be sorry for anything, and told him so. All he said was, "for misjudging you," and then he asked me if I would be interested in watching him play the piano at a concert.
Eliza slapped me upside the head when I told her that I was going to go watch his concert. Something about "of all the nice boys he could have fallen for, he had to go for you." I think she's sort of secretly pleased, though, because she keeps smiling at me in practice even when I'm fucking up our jump sequences.
She and Francis are the only ones who know so far; I haven't told Antonio yet because one sappy idiot going on and on about how much I'm in love with Roderich is enough. But I needed Francis's help picking out an outfit. He certainly has style-unlike his latest fling, who seems to be going for the 'grandpa aesthetic.' I asked Francis how his fashion conscious eyes could stand to look at it all the time, but the only answer he gave me was 'the things we do for love.'
Anyway, so he dressed me up in this stupid monkey suit, and dragged me to this stupid orchestral outing, and I had to sit through a whole hour before I got to hear him play-but my God, was it worth it. I have never ever ever heard music like that before. I don't think I've ever paid attention for that amount of time before. It was just...incredible. And at the reception after the performance, we made plans to go to dinner last week.
Alfred closed the diary-(journal!) said the little Gilbert-voice in his head-and padded to the kitchen to fix himself breakfast. Oh, he'd always had his suspicions about why Mr. Edelstein had given him the diaries, but by now the evidence was a little too pointed to ignore. A figure skater falling in love with a man he originally hated? A man he hated with unusually coloured and beautiful eyes? Shared cultural conflict, mutual antagonization, a gradual and grudging appreciation for an artistic talent? It was about as blunt as an anvil to the head.
Alfred placed the paring knife upright on the table and spun it on its point, letting it clatter back to the wood before picking it up again and repeating the movement. Heads he liked Ivan. Tails he didn't. No, wait. Wrong game. All right, point towards him he liked Ivan, point away he didn't. This time when the knife fell, the blade lazily spun until it came to a rest pointing sideways. Fan-fucking-tastic.
"Ready to go?" Arthur mumbled, already shuffling towards the front door. Alfred followed in moody silence, steeling himself against the bitter New England air. He nursed a coffee as he did so, despite his father's disapproving looks, and attempted to pacify him by taking a few more sips of his rapidly freezing Gatorade. (Hadn't his dad ever heard of preheating the car?)
They had been meandering through the icy-slick roads for about five minutes (Arthur had always been a careful driver) before Alfred worked up the courage to ask his question.
"I know you told us how you and Papa met, but how did, you know, you know…?"
"I'm afraid I don't know, Alfred, so go on and use your words like a big boy." Alfred started in surprise. "No, I'm sorry," Arthur sighed out through his teeth. "I'm just...on edge, what with my siblings and the qualifying finals. It's not your fault. What did you want to ask me?"
"How did you know you were in love with Papa? I mean, you knew each other for such a long time, how'd you figure it out?"
Arthur had gone a steadily darker shade of scarlet as the question had progressed. "Alfred, if it's romantic advice you want, maybe I should get Francis on the line...he's much better with this sort of thing. I know it's early but he'd be happy to talk about-"
"No, that's okay," Alfred interjected hurriedly. "Everyone says I'm so much like you, you know."
Arthur's chest puffed up with pride. His son was coming to him for romantic advice. His son had declared himself to be like his father. His son had declared this, through his coming to Arthur for advice, to be a matter of pride. And damnit, he was not going to let his son down!
"Well, Alfred, the most important thing about love is that it's unique to everyone and every couple. I knew I was in love with Francis because every time I was around him I felt like I was glowing gold-you know the kind of late afternoon sunlight you get in September or October? that kind of gold-and he brought out the poetry in me. I used to write him pages and pages of declarations of love; he'll complain about them now, but at the time he thought they were dreadfully romantic.
"Francis, on the other hand, says that the feeling was more like being on fire every time he saw me, that every time he saw me he felt like he was the sun shining. He used to call us les petits soleils, you know. The little suns. Does that help?"
Not in the slightest, Alfred thought, but he nodded anyway. Arthur gave him a little smile, though whether it was genuine or an acknowledgement of Alfred's confusion, he didn't know.
"For you, it might be skating," Arthur soldiered on. "Love brings out the artistry in each of us. Francis sketches, I write. For your teacher Mr. Edelstein, it was the piano," he remarked as he pulled into the rink parking lot.
"How do you two know each other, anyway?" Alfred asked as he reached into the backseat. Had he been looking into the rearview mirror, he would have seen Arthur hesitate. However, in the process of digging around for one of the skates that had fallen out (he should really start zipping the bag) he missed the momentary pause.
"Ask your father," was his only answer, which made Alfred laugh as headed inside. There were certain blessings to being easily amused.
Apparently, one of those blessings was not the ability to skate well after a day off. His muscles were sore, he wasn't sticking his jumps, he fell out of his turns before even two minutes of the routine had passed. Swearing viciously, he skated back to the end of the boards to start the routine over again, though not before punching them with a considerable amount of force. To his dismay, he left a dent. Oops.
Despite considerable effort put forth in trying to push them out, all that was echoing (echoing) around in his head were his questions about Ivan. How was the man that distracting when he wasn't even here? Remembering his father's words from the car, he took a deep breath and considered the possibility of giving in. Worth a shot. Striking his starting pose, left of centre ice, he let his thoughts fill with Ivan. Infuriating grin. Bizarre accent. Chilly temper. Powerful elegance. Violet ice eyes.
When he finished the routine, 7 minutes and 23 seconds later, just inside regulation rules, he found himself with three answers and a plethora of questions. One, Alfred absolutely had not lost his ability to skate. Two, Arthur was better at giving advice than he thought. Three, his father had been right, unknowingly, about him and Ivan which left him...still in uncertainty.
"Pretty," came a voice from behind him, and Alfred temporarily considered whether it was unethical to skate over people's spinal cords.
"Ah, the much anticipated arrival of the last known surviving specimens of the Neanderthals!"
The aforementioned arrival looked exceptionally puzzled by Alfred's longwinded announcement. Alfred didn't have the heart to explain it to him, mainly because he didn't fully understand it himself. He might have stolen that from Ivan. Not that he would ever admit to stealing insults.
"Listen, dude, what is your problem?"
"My problem is that everyone at this entire fucking school is obsessed with you and your skating when they should be coming to our hockey games. The only reason we're not top of the league is because you're here taking up all of our rink time-"
"I'm quite certain you do not want to finish that sentence, Davis." Goosebump prickles ran down Alfred's spine at the familiar accent.
"Ivan, I appreciate it, but I can handle it."
Ivan continued as though he hadn't even heard Alfred. "If you are in any way, shape, or form intelligent, which I highly doubt, you will walk yourself back to the locker room and not bother Alfred again." The player sneered but did as requested. The enormous Russian could be quite terrifying.
"So, you took a shine to one of my insults?" Ivan asked after Davis had slammed the locker room door (the last refuge of the passive aggressive).
Alfred coloured red. "It was all I could think of in the moment."
Ivan's eyes lit up, and he gave Alfred a small smile. "So I was on your mind, then."
"No! Yes. Sort of. I was just trying to remember what you told me about my extensions." Coward, came the little voice inside of his head, who Alfred ignored. If there was a hint of disappointment in Ivan's eyes, he ignored that too.
"Do they still bother you often?" Ivan turned the matter back to the immanent problem of the hockey team. "I will make them stop, you know. Just tell me."
"I don't want you to make them stop."
"Does it not bother you?"
"Yeah, it does, but-"
"Then let me help you."
"I don't want your help!" That had been the wrong thing to say. Alfred watched Ivan's face grow darker than he'd seen it in weeks, since they'd started working together. He wanted to bang his head frustratedly against the rink's boards. Just when they'd been making progress too.
"Ah, I see. You do not trust me, Jones?"
Ouch. Back to Jones. "No, that's not it. But you're already doing enough for me with the hearing and the ballet and everything!"
At least Ivan no longer looked like he was going to murder him in his sleep at the next available opportunity. "But I am offering, Alfred."
"I'm just-it's-oh, hell," Alfred said, and leant in and kissed Ivan very firmly on the mouth. His lips were very soft and slightly cold, and he held his own against them for several moments before he realised exactly what he'd done, whereupon he tore himself away, hopped the boards, and bolted for the car, only stopping to yank his skates off his feet right before he practically threw himself out the double doors.
He wasn't sure if he was expecting Ivan to chase after him. He wasn't sure if he wanted him to or not. All he knew was that when he collapsed into the front seat beside Francis, his heart was in his throat and his brain was reeling with the stupidity of what he'd just done.
"Alfred, are you all right?" Arthur asked, eyebrows knit together as he stared at Alfred, sweaty and flushed and shoeless.
What was he going to say? That he'd just done something immeasurably stupid? That he was pretty sure whatever standing he'd had at school was now gone? That the student who'd agreed to represent him at his hearing now might have the motive to screw him over completely?
"Just tired after the workout," was his only reply.
"Oh. As long as that's all," Arthur said, much relieved, as they pulled out of the parking lot.
"Where's Mattie? Doesn't he have skating practice too?" Alfred asked in confusion.
"Francis is taking him."
"Oh."
"Did something happen? You seem to be spending a lot more time with Leon recently. Not that I mind, of course!" Arthur hurriedly backtracked. "I'm really glad that you and Leon have such a good brotherly bond, especially with all of the-" here he made a vague gesture "-drama that's been going on recently."
"Nothing big, Dad."
Arthur nodded sharply. "Good lad," he said firmly. "Now, Francis forgot to pack your lunch-" Alfred blanched "-and I was too tired to make anything this morning, so here's five quid for your lunch. Spend it wisely! I want vegetables on your plate!"
"Yes, Dad," Alfred replied with a roll of his eyes. "I'll see you after practice this afternoon."
He spent the morning resolutely pretending that absolutely nothing interesting or unusual was happening in his life. He worked on his chemistry homework with Kiku. He listened to Felix's inane prattle about the disappointment that had been the Fall/Winter fashion lines, and his hopes for the spring ones. He patiently offered his advice about which colour of nail polish he thought would be more appropriate for a date to Chelle. He even shared his Oreos with Toris. Anything to keep his mind off of mind off of the fact that hours earlier, he'd made out with his arch nemesis, which he definitely had not done. Nope. Nope, hadn't happened. That would be like...Batman making out with the Joker! Or Professor X making out with Magneto! Nope, nope, nope, he was not going down the X-Men debate with Kiku because he definitely had not kissed Ivan Braginksy.
Fuck.
There was only one thing to do in a situation as desperate as this, Alfred was convinced. And that was to talk to the only other guy he knew with a secret boyfriend. So, making his way across the cafeteria to where his half brother sat with his weird punk-ass significant other, he plopped down without so much as a hello.
"Dude, we need to talk."
"Now?" Leon looked pained.
"Yes, now. Would I interrupt your lunch otherwise?" he retorted.
"Yes," Leon and goth dude replied, completely deadpan.
Alfred rolled his eyes. "Listen, this is really important. Like, so important that if you don't come with me right now, I'll tell Dad you drove up to New Hampshire and bought a case of fireworks and vodka with a fake ID. Or I'll tell him exactly who left Papa's...toys on the sofa that one time he had his business partner over for dinner. Or," he whispered, leaning in rather close, "I'll tell him exactly what you two were doing upstairs on Thanksgiving."
"You're bluffing," Leon murmured, face gone white as a sheet. "You wouldn't."
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Willing to bet two months grounded I'm not? You know that's what Dad did that one time freshman year I came home with a hickey on my neck."
"Fine," Leon huffed, clearly unhappy that he had to cut his lunch date short. "But I swear to God, Alfred Williams-Jones, you owe me one for this," he grumbled. "How did you even know about Thanksgiving anyway?" he asked as they scraped their lunch trays off.
"Please," Alfred snorted. "You two are about as subtle as two birds of paradise. I saw him hiding in our tree."
Leon turned a little pink. "For what it's worth, that wasn't my idea," he protested.
Alfred shrugged. "To each their own," he replied, then promptly dragged Leon into an empty classroom.
"I...may have done something very stupid today."
Leon sighed. "How bad?"
"Bad. Bad bad. Like, worse-than-anything-we've-ever-pulled bad."
"Trouble with the police bad?" Leon asked, striving desperately for a casual tone of voice and cracking on the last worked, failing miserably.
"No! God, no," Alfred conceded. "Not that bad. But still, pretty bad!" he hurriedly continued, lest Leon forget how dire the situation was.
"Well, hurry up and tell me so we can fix it!" Leon demanded. "It can't honestly be worse than the time we filled everyone's mailboxes with glitter, can it?"
"Worse," Alfred replied grimly.
"Worse than the time we put those photos of the football linebacker cuddling his teddy bear in all the school bathrooms?"
"Worse," Alfred confirmed. "And anyway, he was a jerk, he deserved that one."
"Touché. What about the time we swapped out all our friend's lunches with Papa's cooking?"
"Worse."
"The one with the pie?" Leon continued hopefully.
"Worse."
"What about Matthew and the handcuffs and the telephone pole?"
"Worse."
"Uncle James and Uncle David and the whiskey and the trampoline?" Leon's voice rose a whole octave in its desperation.
"Worse."
"For God's sakes, Alfred, what did you do!?"
"I may or may not have made out with Ivan Braginsky."