DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
FAMOUS FIRST WORDS
THIRTEEN
BJØRN
Bjørn woke abruptly.
It wasn't a start, or a jolt, or a flinch. His mouth and eyes flew open in union; a soundless gasp sucked from the former, and tears leaking from the latter. He reached up to touch his face, afraid and ashamed to find his cheeks wet, but he remained silent. Inside, his heart was thrumming like the vibrations of a plucked lute; outside, he felt cold despite the sweaty heat of Mikkel's muscular bulk pressed against his back. The Dane slept with one arm resting over the slope of Bjørn's waist, the hand limply cupping his ribcage, pinning him to the mattress. He had to be careful not to wake Mikkel as he inched slowly away. Fortunately, Mikkel slept deeply; though he woke violently if not gently coaxed. He had the attack-reflexes of a wolf, but dreamt the animated dreams of a slumbering dog. He grunted at Bjørn's movement, but settled again after a few minutes of Bjørn tenderly stroking his bed-head. Bjørn waited a moment more, then swiftly left the bed when he was certain it was safe to do so. The last thing he wanted was Mikkel waking to find him gone.
Light-footed, he crossed the large bedroom, bare feet creeping over sheep skin and reindeer hide to reach the window. He drew the curtain open to match his own narrow width, then stood naked in the wan moonlight, staring at the snowfall with dried tears on his cheeks.
It was the same view he had been looking at since childhood: trees and water and mountains that had seen him cry more than anything else in the world.
As a boy, it had been his happy-place, the isolated place his memory vacated to, to distance himself from the present. It's why he had so often looked vacant or aloof in the company of others; a psychological defense mechanism self-employed to protect his mind, if nothing else. The limitless expanse of the fjord's primordial power absorbed the shadows that haunted him. The immoveable mountains, impenetrable. He imagined the jagged cliffs as a jötunn's icy hands, crushing the faceless shadows between them; he imagined he heard screams in the howling wind. It was cruel and beautiful and liberating.
But when he turned back from the window, his imagination faltered, and he once again faced a house full of wicked, shapeless shadows. Memories. Nightmares.
Mikkel was sitting upright in bed, his royal-blue eyes breaking Bjørn's defenses with a single, poignant look. He extended his scarred, big-knuckled hand, and said:
"Come here."
GILBERT
I'll wait with the car," Francis offered.
Gilbert tossed Francis his keys without argument and followed Antonio into the old, two-level building. They knocked for politeness, not necessity; the flat door swung open the moment his knuckles carefully tapped the surface. Inside was a flurry of activity as the three occupants prepared for the weekend sleepover: Lovino was wearing nothing but a threadbare towel as he unclipped laundry from a clothesline strung across the living area; Matthew was trying to force a duffle-bag closed by stomping on it while tugging the zipper; and Arthur was juggling a cuppa tea and his cell-phone, trying to text without spilling, and had a marmalade-slathered crust of burnt toast hanging from his mouth. It was he who saw the two detectives first, but he merely glanced in their direction, unable to speak. Instead, he nudged Matthew with the toe of his sock, and immediately lost his balance. He teetered sideways, hot black tea slopping over the side. Gilbert threw out his arm to catch Arthur at the same time Matthew looked up. "Oh, hey," he smiled, seconds before the bag's zipper snapped under pressure and he flew backwards, landing on his rump on the floor. The sudden noise startled Lovino, who accidentally tugged on the clothesline and brought a whole cascade down on top of himself.
From the doorway, Antonio applauded the sequence. "That was brilliant. Did you plan that?" he joked.
He invited himself to some toast while he and Gilbert waited for Lovino to get dressed, for Matthew to find a new bag, and for Arthur to—actually, Gilbert didn't know what Arthur was doing shut into his bedroom, but when he finally reappeared he was wearing different, nicer clothes.
Not trying to impress someone, are we? he privately teased, then felt guilty about it.
He wasn't sure how he was expected to treat Arthur, now. He was Francis' ex-lover, the man who had broken his friend's heart, whom his friend was still in love with; but he was also Matthew's best friend and only living relative. Antonio had chosen loyalty to Francis and made it rudely obvious by glaring at Arthur, but Gilbert was conflicted. He didn't want to risk isolating or insulting any of the people he cared for, so he very diplomatically chose to avoid Arthur unless directly addressed.
Just ignore another problem, Gil, it'll definitely go away. He sighed.
"Here, let me," he said, taking Matthew and Arthur's shared duffle-bag. Matthew's smile inspired him to take Lovino's overnight case as well, thinking to win some brownie points—and show-off his impressive strength—but he buckled unexpectedly at the sudden weight. "Scheisse!" he cursed, his attempt at chivalry backfiring as he dropped it. He glanced incredulously at Lovino, and asked: "Just how long are you planning on staying?"
"Just the weekend," Lovino said cavalierly.
He finished lacing his boots, buttoned his coat, and led Antonio out by the hand, leaving Gilbert to feel like a bellhop with both bags. Matthew offered to help, but Gilbert dismissed it. Heroically, he hefted the weight onto his shoulders and winked rakishly at his boyfriend, who offered a shy smile before heading downstairs. Gilbert wondered at Matthew's silence, then saw Arthur in his peripheral vision; Arthur, who took a deep breath before closing the door behind them.
"Is he okay?" Gilbert whispered to Matthew.
"Yes," Matthew replied, loyal to a fault.
Gilbert touched Matthew's shoulder, stopping him on the front steps. "Are you okay?"
Matthew started to speak, but his soft voice was drowned beneath the hollers of Antonio, play-wrestling with Francis, who was trying to stuff him into the cramped backseat of the Mercedes. He had a hand firmly planted on the Spaniard's forehead and was pushing, while Antonio clawed at the roof in overdramatic distress, like a dog trying to escape the bath. Lovino was already inside the car, a look of disgruntlement on his face. Gilbert snorted when he saw them, but the play stopped as soon as the duo saw Arthur. Antonio ducked inside without a word, and Francis quickly circled around to the other side, saying:
"You can have the front, Arthur."
Gilbert deliberately ignored the tension. Like a parent scolding the children, he righted the front bench-seat, forcing Francis and Antonio's knees up against it, with Lovino squeezed in between them.
"So, we couldn't have taken a cab, huh?" Lovino deadpanned in annoyance.
Gilbert ignored the insult to his precious Mercedes and crawled in, straddling the gear-shift in the middle of the bench. Matthew looked confused at first, but smiled, genuinely, when Gilbert said:
"You're driving, schatzi."
Francis leant over the seat to present Matthew with the keys at the same time Arthur slid into the passenger-seat, accidentally brushing shoulders. "Sorry," said the Frenchman reflexively, drawing attention to the blunder and instantly making everyone in the small interior uncomfortable. Arthur nodded and muttered a polite dismissal, then inched forward until he sat on the edge of the seat, knee-to-knee with Gilbert, his posture geisha-straight.
"Well, this is fun," said Lovino sarcastically.
As Matthew carefully guided the car onto the highway, craning his neck and praying he didn't hit anything—the mirrors and back windshield were obstructed—Gilbert turned on the radio to try to dispel the tension. However, he regretted it when three different requests bombarded his eardrums from the backseat. "Fuck, it's my car!" he said, self-important, "so I get to choose the—"
Matthew reached the dial first and deftly changed the channel. "Driver chooses the music, right, Gil?"
Gilbert sat back in surrender. It's going to be a long weekend, he thought, and smiled.
MATTHEW
Matthew hated lying to Gilbert, and hated that this weekend would be filled with more lies than usual; lies that didn't just concern him.
He was worried about Arthur's presence this weekend, but, truthfully, he would have been more worried if he wasn't present, left alone to his own self-destruction. Matthew was looking forward to a relaxed, safe holiday spent with Arthur, but he was also, secretly, glad for the isolation of the Beilschmidt house, and that he could keep an eye on Arthur for the duration. He did feel guilty about blackmailing Arthur into such an uncomfortable situation, but he was confident the luxury of Gilbert's hospitality—central-heating, lots of food, private bedrooms, gifts and alcohol, and a fireplace as big as a walk-in closet—would make up for it.
"Come on, Art," he had begged when Arthur had gotten cold-feet that morning, saying he had changed his mind about going. "You can sleep in a bed to yourself, take a long, hot shower, have mimosas for breakfast, and then spend an afternoon by the fireplace with tea and a book. It'll be like a vacation—you can stay in your pajamas all day, if you want," he bribed.
He was glad to see Arthur's green eyes widen in surprise when they reached the Beilschmidt house—"Ah yes, Beilschmidt Manor!" Antonio growled in a harsh German accent—because he had been silent the whole drive, despite being the biggest, most pretentious music snob Matthew knew. Matthew had briefly feared that his cousin intended to spend the whole weekend in silent protest, but the splendour of the house reanimated him. He exited the car slowly, staring dazedly at the grandeur of the estate. Matthew took his arm and escorted him inside behind Gilbert, who was, again, saddled with luggage.
"Blimey O'Riley," Arthur whispered in awe.
"I know, right?" Matthew smiled, pleased.
Arthur looked at him, very seriously, and said: "Marry him."
Matthew rolled his eyes. "Please don't steal from my boyfriend, Art."
Just then, two large dogs barrelled down the corridor into the entrance-hall, barking deafeningly.
"Ah!" Lovino yipped, and grabbed Antonio to use as a human-shield.
"Sit," Gilbert ordered in German, then knelt to greet the excited canines. "Don't like dogs?" he asked Lovino.
"Um, no," Lovino admitted, receiving two incredulous looks from Francis and Antonio, as if the Italian had stated he hated babies or ice-cream. (Lovino had told Matthew once that he had had a rather intense rivalry with his brother's Italian Greyhound.)
"Give me your hands, just for a second," Gilbert said, waving forth Lovino and Arthur. He took them both by the wrist and pulled forward to let the dogs sniff; Lovino squirmed. "Friends," he said sternly.
The moment the dogs were released from their forced sit, one—the younger, energetic one—circled Matthew expectantly, its bulk nearly knocking him over; the other went directly to Arthur.
"Hello, chap," he said quietly. He sunk into a kneel, his tartan coat flared at his feet. "You're a handsome lad, aren't you? Oh, yes you are," he cooed affectionately, scrubbing the dog under its chin while its fluffy tail thumped the hardwood. "What a good boy."
"Oh, weird," Gilbert mused, pleasantly surprised. "He doesn't usually respond so well to strangers."
"Art loves dogs," Matthew said before Arthur could. "We've both wanted a dog since—well, forever. What kid doesn't want a dog?"
"That one," Gilbert joked, pointing to Lovino. "It's okay," he added, noting the Italian's unease. "They're huge sucks because my brother spoils them. They won't hurt you on purpose."
"On purpose—?" Lovino repeated, skeptical. He was eyeing Matthew, who was presently being corralled by one-hundred-and-thirty pounds of fur and solid muscle.
"I feel so rejected," Antonio pouted. "You've both betrayed me," he aimed at the dogs. "I thought I was your favourite."
"It looks like Matthew's the favourite, now," Francis teased, intentionally overlooking Arthur.
Gilbert shrugged. "It's probably because you smelled like me when they met you, schatzi—" He stopped fast, realizing his mistake, but too late. His friends were already grinning.
"Oh?" said Francis suggestively.
"Ow-aroo!" Antonio howled, provoking the dogs to bark.
"Is there a room I can leave my things in?" Arthur interjected, standing. Matthew was grateful; his face was hot in embarrassment.
"Oh, yeah, of course," Gilbert said, eager to escape his faux-pas. He glanced apologetically at Matthew, then led the party upstairs.
Matthew watched Francis and Arthur get caught in a painfully awkward dance on the first step—"go ahead," said Arthur; "no, you first," said Francis—then followed them to the second-level, where Gilbert clapped his hands like a tour guide.
"Okay, so... there's six bedrooms," he said, smiling transparently, "but one of them is being used for storage, and another is my Vater's room, so it's completely off-limits. My room"—he pointed to where he and Matthew would be sleeping—"and Ludwig's room, which only leaves..."
"Two spares," Francis finished.
It was quiet for a moment, no one making eye-contact, then Arthur retreated. "I'll sleep on the couch—"
"No, I will," Francis argued. "Arthur, you take the room. I don't mind—"
"No, it's fine. I'm used to—"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Lovino groaned. Annoyed, he grabbed his case's strap and dragged it laboriously across the floor. "I'll share with Arthur, Francis will share with Tonio. Is that okay?"
There were a few head-bobs of reluctant agreement.
As Francis and Antonio disappeared into one bedroom to deposit their bags, Matthew heard Arthur mumble a relieved apology to Lovino. Lovino shrugged, failing to hide his disappointment, then went inside.
"Here," Arthur said, before he and Matthew separated. He fished in the duffle-bag for Matthew's clothes and toiletries and handed them over. "Oh, um... I think you forgot to pack pajamas, pet," he said, searching.
"No, I didn't," Matthew assured him.
Arthur failed to recognize the boy's insinuating tone. "Yes, I think you did," he worried. "What are you going to sleep in if not—Oh."
Matthew felt himself blush redder as Arthur's baffled gaze swung between he and Gilbert, who was biting his lip to keep from laughing.
"Oh," he repeated, re-zipping the bag. "Right then, I'll just... Right."
"I think he'll be okay," Gilbert said when Arthur was gone, retreating quickly into his and Lovino's bedroom. "My brother's like that, too. We'll just fuel him full of wine at supper and the awkwardness will melt right out of him."
Matthew agreed. If Arthur was still present enough to misread social cues, then there was hope for him yet.
As long as we don't leave he and Francis alone together, I think they'll be okay.
Gilbert ushered Matthew into his bedroom with a teasing bow and a smirk, but when the door closed behind them Matthew's confidence fled. His boyfriend's persona was relaxed, a lazy smile on his lips, a playful twinkle in his eyes. He looked good—really good—as he peeled off his jacket to reveal nothing but a black t-shirt, which hugged his chest and biceps a bit too tightly. Matthew watched, transfixed, as Gilbert stretched his arms up overhead, flexing his muscles in a way so casual it betrayed his licentious intentions, and he almost smiled, he almost laughed and accepted the flirtation, but he didn't. A cruel, twisted anxiety prevented him, because when he looked at Gilbert, his handsome white knight, he wondered what he had looked like last night; what had he eaten?; who had he talked to, joked with?; had he danced with anyone?; and why—why?—hadn't he wanted to do all of those things with his boyfriend?
Matthew knew that he wasn't the partner Gilbert's family expected of him, but it wouldn't have mattered last night, because the family—Gilbert's father—had not been there. Only he and Ludwig had attended, Lovino reported. It would've been subtle. It's not like the police department had anything to do with Gilbert, personally, right? It's not as if the other guests would've recognized Matthew; Lovino hadn't had to tell anyone whom he was, after all. So, why had Gilbert not asked his boyfriend to accompany him, choosing, instead, to go to the gala alone?
Is he ashamed to be seen with me? Matthew wondered. Is he embarrassed by me?
It was a sad, sobering thought that stifled any desire he would have otherwise felt; a thought accompanied by self-depredating feelings and paranoia that would leech the happiness from the weekend if he couldn't be brave now.
"Gil?" he said, his voice small. He swallowed. "Can we... talk for a minute?"
Gilbert relaxed his posture, a look of concern on his face. "Yeah, of course. Is something wrong?"
Yes, he wanted to say, with confidence. You've been hiding things from me, and you think I don't know, but I do, and I want to know why.
He tried to imagine what Arthur or Lovino would say, and how they would act (react). Arthur would be stark in accusation and immovable in argument; he wouldn't let messy emotion ebb his dignity. Lovino would be loud and impassioned and unafraid to rage and make a scene; unafraid to let the offender know exactly how despicable a man he was. (Matthew had once seen Lovino spit on a club patron who insulted him.) But Matthew wasn't like either of his friends, and he didn't want to make Gilbert feel despicable; he didn't want Gilbert to get defensive and refuse to talk, or—worse—lie; he didn't want Gilbert to feel attacked; but mostly, Matthew didn't want Gilbert to be upset with him. More than anything, he didn't want to do or say something that would put their relationship in jeopardy, or make the German scion realize that dating an impoverished East-End boy was a waste of his time and money. Matthew wasn't a fool. He knew he didn't belong in the Beilschmidt family, he didn't belong in Gilbert's world, but he wanted to stay in it for as long as he could, simply because that's where Gilbert was.
I don't want to lose you, he worried, and I really don't want you to hate me.
Nervously, he said: "Gil? I, um... I just wanted to, um..."
Gilbert looked hurt now. "Matt, what is it? You can tell me anything, okay? Anything."
Hesitantly, Matthew nodded. He took a deep breath, then, in a rush, he said: "I like you a lot, Gil, but it really hurt my feelings that you didn't invite me to the gala last night, and I want to know why."
He crossed his arms as a sign of rigidity, but he was shaking.
Gilbert was clearly taken aback. His red eyes blinked in shock, then softened. "Oh, that," he said, somewhat meekly. "I..."
Matthew clutched his sweater sleeves as Gilbert fidgeted, searching for the right words. Matthew hoped they wouldn't be a lie.
Please, he thought hypocritically, anything but a lie.
"I—I'm so sorry, schatzi," Gilbert crumbled. "I want to tell you everything," he said grandly, implying more than a party. "I really do, but I can't. I just can't, not right now. Things are difficult right now, and..." He slumped onto the bed and ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. Matthew wanted to go to him, but he stayed firmly in place. "It's not that I didn't want to take you last night," Gilbert said, looking up at his boyfriend regretfully. "I would've loved to have you there with me. I love being with you, I want you to know that, but I just can't risk you getting involved, Matt. I won't risk you getting hurt."
Matthew was perplexed. "Hurt? What are you talking about, Gil? Are you in danger?" he asked, frightened.
"No, no, nothing like that," Gilbert dismissed. "It's just family stuff. It's complicated.
"I'm really sorry, sweetheart," he said for the first time in English. "I wish I could tell you more, I really do. I feel like a fucking dick not telling you, but it's private. It's stuff I need to deal with on my own, okay? It doesn't change how I feel about you. I like you—there's no one else," he emphasized so emphatically it made Matthew smile a little. "I hope, someday, I can tell you everything, but right now..." He shrugged helplessly, "all I can do is ask you to trust me."
Matthew considered Gilbert for a moment, then said: "Okay."
Gilbert stood up, surprised. "Okay—?" Clearly, he had not expected unconditional agreement, but Matthew nodded.
"Yes, okay," he repeated. "I trust you, Gil."
Gilbert stared at Matthew, a twisted, undecipherable expression on his pale face. He looked confused, then upset, then relieved. Then he closed the space between them, took the boy's face in his hands, and kissed him deeply.
"I don't deserve you," he said quietly, his head bowed.
Matthew felt a swell of warmth, joy—love—in his heart. "Yes, you do," he said softly, cupping Gilbert's cheek. "You're a good man.
"Not that I think I'm any kind of prize, or anything," he amended quickly in embarrassment, "I'm not a—"
Gilbert kissed him again, a gentle peck to interrupt. "Yeah, schatzi, you really are. I'm so sorry I hurt you," he said, pressing his forehead to Matthew's. Matthew closed his eyes; felt the brush of Gilbert's nose and the heat of his lips. "I should've told you sooner instead of trying to hide it."
"It's okay," Matthew replied, sliding his hands over Gilbert's shoulder-blades. He moved fluidly, naturally, into the circle of his boyfriend's arms. "I'm just glad you didn't lie."
Gilbert squeezed Matthew, a beat of hesitance, then he started to speak: "Matt, there's something else I—"
Ludwig's voice filled the bedroom:
"Gil, your guests have invaded our kitchen, and are—" He stopped midsentence when he noticed the couple's intimate embrace. Matthew, resting his head on Gilbert's collarbone, opened his eyes and smiled demurely at Ludwig.
"Hey, Lud?" Gilbert smiled in tight-lipped sarcasm, "one day I'm going to teach you how to fucking knock."
ARTHUR
Arthur's day had begun worrisomely and progressed no better—anxiously, he had nearly begged on hands-and-knees for Matthew to release him from his obligation—but by sunset he was finally starting to relax. The Beilschmidt house felt like a hotel, as promised. The bedroom he and Lovino had been given was half as big as their entire flat, with a bed big enough for three, and an en suite toilet with a claw-foot bathtub. ("A motherfucking bathtub, Arthur!" Lovino had shrieked in joy.) Once every inch of the bedroom had been surveyed and critiqued, the two friends giggling like high school boys on a class trip, they left to explore the rest of the house.
"This place is huge," Arthur said, his neck bent back to admire the high ceilings.
"Yeah, it's big, but it's barren," Lovino noted, adopting the speculative tone of an interior designer. "There's nothing personable about this house: no photographs, or memorabilia—no first-grade macaroni art. It needs colour," he concluded, just as Francis and Antonio walked into the lounge they were perusing.
"Please, yes," Francis agreed. "Tell them that. I feel like I'm in a mausoleum."
"A very, very expensive mausoleum," Antonio added, flopping down sideways onto a couch.
Unlike the homes of the rich and famous, the proud Beilschmidt house looked more akin to a Danish decor showroom. Yes, the walls were a trifle bare, but the furniture was of very fine quality and understated luxury, made to be used, not just admired. Arthur liked it; it was not as intimidating a space as it could have been if it were bedecked with fragile pieces of priceless art. On the contrary, the wood-and-stone fireplace and sturdy, firmly-planted furniture looked like it could take a beating, which, Arthur speculated, was a relief in a place that contained Gilbert Beilschmidt.
"Ah," Antonio sighed in bliss. He shimmied, his bottom sliding across the surface to get comfortable. "Now I all I need is—yes, that," he grinned when Francis produced a crystal tumbler and four stout glasses from the austere sideboard.
"Cheers," they said together.
The taste of barrel-aged, five-thousand-credit golden brandy coated Arthur's tongue and slid smoothly down his throat, effectively numbing his anxiety better than any pep-talks or friendly advice ever could.
Okay, he thought, sinking into a nest-like leather armchair, this might not be so bad.
By the time Gilbert and Matthew rejoined the party—ensconced, now, in the kitchen—Arthur's insides felt pleasantly warm. He sat at the breakfast bar, a safe distance from the competitive bickering of three men who all liked to cook as they prepared Christmas Eve supper. Arthur had tried to make some suggestions, but was brutally rejected by Lovino, who warned the others not to let him near the stove. Rude, Arthur thought, especially when the Italian told him that "it's an English tradition!" was not an argument in his favour. So instead, he drank wine—Francis had wisely switched them all to wine after the one brandy—and used Lovino as a conversational shield, while always paying acute attention to Francis' whereabouts so as not to accidentally be left alone with him.
The Frenchman looked good, though. Kiss me, Hardy! He looks so bloody good!
No adult man had any business being so goddamn beautiful. Francis was downright eatable, he thought, and was mortified to hear the words whispered cheekily back to him. He hadn't meant to say them aloud—thank goodness it was only Matthew who had heard. Good, loyal Matthew.
"You should eat something," the boy insisted, removing Arthur's wine glass.
Arthur frowned at presumptuous little Matthew—he frowned up at him. "When did you get so bloody tall?"
Matthew rolled his eyes and force-fed Arthur a biscuit.
They feasted on three national pallets' worth of sumptuous holiday dishes—none of them English—and used the dining-room properly for the first time in six months, Gilbert said. ("What does properly mean?" Antonio asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the tabletop.) Arthur sat in a high-backed chair between Matthew and Ludwig, who appeared to be Gilbert's opposite in everything—including table manners—except, perhaps, their appetites, and in the way they both scowled at Antonio's declaration that Spain's football clubs were better than Germany's. (The topic might have caused a riot if Lovino hadn't tactfully kicked Antonio's shin.) More drinks were served with dessert, including a bottle of ice-wine, which Gilbert had procured especially for Matthew, whose youthful pallet was the only one that enjoyed the intensely sweet drink. ("It's like drinking syrup!" Lovino complained, but Matthew beamed happily and said: "I know! I love it!")
Antonio, Arthur noticed, was still nursing his second glass of white wine. He thought it was nothing, until, on his way to the toilet, he overheard Antonio saying to Francis in private: "I'm going to switch to beer now. Cut me off after four, okay?"
What's all that about? Does he have a drinking problem? Arthur wondered, but the encounter was soon forgotten.
It was forgotten, because the moment he entered the lounge—the big one with the fireplace and the view—Matthew announced that they were going to play charades. It was a silly, dated English tradition that their family had always participated in, and Arthur was happy to do so now; and everyone else, it seemed, was just drunk enough—or indulgent of Matthew enough—to agree, except for Ludwig, who politely refused and excused himself by saying that the teams wouldn't be even if he played. A self-sacrifice, indeed.
Arthur was feeling quite a lot better about himself—
—until he drew Antonio as a partner.
"Fuck," they said simultaneously, making the others laugh.
Lovino drew Gilbert, and Matthew drew Francis. Then a fiercely competitive game of charades commenced.
LOVINO
Oh my God, how is that a fucking bird?" Lovino seethed, stabbing a finger at his partner.
"It's a bird!" Gilbert argued, determined. "See—? Wings!" he flapped his arms. "And they do this—this thing," he insisted, acting in a way no one could decipher.
"You look like the fucking Lord of the Dance," Lovino criticized.
"Face it, Gil, you suck big, hairy balls at this game," Antonio declared, sitting in an armchair beside Arthur's.
"I do not! I'm awesome at this stupid game! Look—fucking look!" he yelled, doing an impression that had his boyfriend literally crying in laughing.
"Have you ever seen a bird before?" Lovino questioned in jest.
"Yes, he has," Ludwig said, watching the game from a corner-vantage, like a gentleman at the opera... except he had a pyramid of empty beer bottles at his feet. "He used to have a bird. A little yellow canary he called Gil-bird—"
"Shut up!" Gilbert hollered, going red.
His friends roared with laughter. "Did you really? How did we not know this!"
Gilbert glared at his younger brother, promising retribution; but Lovino didn't miss the way Matthew's violet eyes sparkled when he looked at sulky Gilbert. It may have been the alcohol, but the shy boy had never looked more at home than he did right now: sitting on the hardwood by the fireplace, close to Francis, petting a dog with one hand, and holding a syrupy-sweet cocktail in the other. A cocktail he had made himself, showing-off his bartending skills to the approval of all. ("Can you juggle the bottles? I want to see you flip all the bottles!" Antonio demanded, and then cheered when Matthew surprised him and dexterously complied.) Good luck with the sugar hangover tomorrow, Lovino sympathized, thinking that a bartender ought to know better. Then again, the kid was only nineteen; let him make a few self-destructive mistakes. The subtle way in which Gilbert kept watch over Matthew was proof that the boy would be well cared for tonight, whatever his nocturnal activities included. (At this point, Lovino would've placed his bet on vomiting.)
"It was a bird," Gilbert mumbled, falling onto the couch with his arms crossed; the sudden impact propelled Lovino up an inch.
"Sure thing, Michael Flatley," he said, reactivating the game's app on Gilbert's cell-phone. "Your turn, Matt."
Matthew glanced at the word, thought for a minute, then acted in a convoluted fashion Lovino couldn't begin to understand, but it only took Francis five seconds to yell:
"Casablanca!"
"Yes!"
"God-fucking-damn-it!" Antonio groaned. "How the hell are you two amazing at this? You barely know each other!"
"Clearly, we're soul-mates," Francis teased, clasping hands with Matthew in celebration.
"Clearly," Matthew parroted proudly.
He sat down in front of Francis, whose legs were now crossed on the couch, and who began absently playing with the boy's pale-blonde curls. He combed his fingers through the satiny locks, a sedate smile on his face—Matthew had that effect on people, especially when he, himself, was feeling good—and even began to hum softly as Arthur and Antonio took centre-stage. Francis looked happy, Lovino thought, but it was definitely due to the liquor in his case. All night he had been stealing baleful glances at Arthur when he thought no one was looking. Matt is a good distraction for him. Indeed, they looked so weirdly alike, Lovino would have guessed them relatives if he didn't know better. And he had never known Matthew to be so content or familiar with a near-stranger before. It was disarming, but also kind of cute.
"They have a weirdly similar—aura," he whispered to Gilbert.
Gilbert lifted an eyebrow. "Aura? What are you, a Tibetan monk?"
"Fuck you," Lovino denounced.
"This is our last chance, so don't fuck it up," Antonio growled at Arthur, who stood to mime his performance.
"Yes," Arthur replied sarcastically, "because this one last point will skyrocket us right into first place."
"It's not my fault we're last!"
"Yes, it is," Arthur argued, unafraid of the Spaniard's temper. "If you understood the rules of the game—"
"I understand the fucking game!" Antonio yelled. "It's you I don't understand!"
"Tonio," Lovino intervened, at the same time Francis warned: "Toni, enough." The dog beside Matthew lifted its head in concern; the other whined.
Antonio seemed to shrink a little. "I-I-I—I said four," he mumbled sheepishly to Francis, his green eyes going guiltily to a triad of beer bottles.
Francis' eyes were kind, but his tone was firm. "Enough," he repeated.
Antonio hesitated, then nodded. "Sorry," he said to Arthur, redirecting his irritation. He leant forward on his knees, ready to play, and said: "Go."
ARTHUR
Is there any point in tallying the scores?" Lovino droned. He was back on the couch with Antonio, his dark head lazily resting in the Spaniard's lap.
Arthur thought not. Despite his heroic effort to earn a few extra points, cleverly—read: spitefully—portraying Francis Drake's defeat of the infamous Spanish Armada for the work sink, Antonio had not been impressed, and had, instead, guessed Blas de Lezo's victory at Cartagena de Indias. This provoked a rather heated staring-contest and the immediate disqualification of Team Kirkland-Carriedo for the language that followed.
"Do we really need to give Coco and her little prodigy a reason to gloat?" Lovino asked rhetorically.
Gilbert, opposite Lovino, frowned. "Huh—?"
Lovino gestured to Francis and Matthew, both of whom smiled sweetly in sweeping victory.
"Hey!" Gilbert said, a beat too late. "Will you stop messing with my boyfriend's hair already? What are you, two girls at a slumber party? He looks—"
"Adorable," Francis cut-in. Matthew was leaning comfortably against Francis' knees, while Francis finished securing a braided crown at the back of his head, which mimicked the look of a young, blonde Coco Chanel. "Just look at him," Francis said, gently squeezing Matthew's cheeks. "So cute!"
"He's not a doll, Fran," Antonio laughed.
"You're squishing my face," Matthew voiced, as if just noticing.
"Beauty is pain, chéri."
Arthur watched the scene from his perch in the big armchair; it nearly swallowed him. He hadn't refilled his glass in a while and he could feel himself sobering, which was dangerous. A sober state was an anxious one for Arthur Kirkland, who was, surprisingly, having a good time and didn't want to spoil it by being himself. A drunk Arthur was a fun Arthur, Matthew's high-school friend Alfred used to say. (Little shit.) But in this crowd, in this awkward situation, it was probably for the best if he made himself another drink. Everyone—sans Antonio (who had vindictively caused them to lose the game on purpose, Arthur was certain)—was being nice to him, but, as that in itself was abnormal, it didn't make him feel like less of a pariah. And it certainly didn't help that only six feet away sat his ex-lover, looking so damn good and being so damn sweet with Arthur's young cousin. It had provoked a parade of unexpected, unwanted thoughts to materialize as they played; deadly thoughts, like: "I wonder what he smells like tonight? Does he roll out of bed looking like that? Who's bed is he sleeping in now?" ; and even worse: He's so sweet with Matthew. I bet he loves children. I wonder how many children he wants? I'd like at least two—
Arthur slapped his cheeks to rid the fantasy, then saw Ludwig frowning at him and got up to make himself a self-fortifying sixth drink.
On his return, he met Matthew in the corridor, who eagerly turned him around by the shoulders and steered him into the other,smaller lounge, where the happily intoxicated crowd was huddled around the television, trying to get a different game app from Antonio's cell-phone to connect. When it did, the television screen coming alight with a display of neon lights and noise, Arthur took a step back.
"Oh, no," he said indefinitely. "I am not playing that. I can't dance!" he argued—begged—as Lovino grabbed his wrist and Matthew propelled him from behind, herding him into the centre of the room, where all of the furniture had been pushed aside.
"So? Neither can Matt," Lovino justified. "It's just for fun."
"Said the professional dancer," Gilbert scoffed. He, too, had a fresh beer in hand.
"This is your revenge, isn't it?" Arthur glared at Antonio, who wiggled his eyebrows villainously as he began a New Game.
"Teams?" he asked.
"Let's just shift to the right," Gilbert suggested, pointing to Lovino, Matthew, and Arthur respectively. It was said casually, but Arthur was grateful for the German's subtle tact: it avoided the risk of Arthur and Francis ending up as partners, as the first draw had done; and, as a bonus, ensured that Antonio and Lovino were not on the same team.
Well played, Detective Beilschmidt, Arthur silently congratulated.
As such, he found himself partnered with Gilbert, Lovino would partner Francis, and Antonio was stuck with Matthew, whose first words to the Spaniard were a pre-emptive: "Sorry."
Antonio smiled. "Come on, Matt, you can't be that bad."
"Oh yes, he can," Lovino warned. "You're all about to witness why Matt's a bartender and not a dancer," he said as Antonio and Matthew drew the first turn.
"Don't you worry," Antonio reassured a blushing Matthew, "I can make anyone look hot on the dance-floor."
"Wait, wait!" Lovino scissored his hands sideways, the universal sign for hold on a minute! "Let's make a bet. If you and Matt have less than fifty points by the game's end, I win," he challenged his boyfriend. "If you have more, you win."
"And the loser has to—?"
"Anything you want," Lovino offered, confident. "There's no way you're going to win, not with Matt as your partner—no offense, Matt."
Antonio cocked his head, a wily smirk on his face. "I think you're underestimating what an amazing dancer I am, cariño. Are you really sure you want to risk it?"
Lovino nodded. "Positive. In fact, I'll even let him decide the loser's punishment." He pointed to Gilbert.
Gilbert lifted two thumbs. "I'm in full-support of this bet. Arthur, Fran—? You guys want in?"
"I'm with Lovino," Arthur admitted. He offered Matthew a consoling look, but said: "Sorry, pet. I've got to go with the odds."
"Then I'll champion Toni and Mathieu," Francis declared. He patted Matthew's braided head. "I have faith in you, chéri. I'm sure you're not as bad as they think."
"Thanks, guys," Matthew said sarcastically, "there goes my last shred of self-esteem.
"So," he turned back to Antonio, "how does this game work?"
"The app is connected to the T.V.," Antonio explained, "and the camera watches our movements. The game board"—he pointed to the television screen—"randomly selects a song or style of dance and we have a minute to try to do it, following the steps on-screen. It's fun," he promised, seeing the scared look on the boy's face. "The score tallies as we move, subtracting points for mistakes and adding points for flare," he teased.
"Flare—?" Matthew repeated, nervously taking Antonio's hands.
The Spaniard winked. "Ready to make Lovi eat his words?" he asked, throwing a cheeky glance back at his boyfriend.
Exactly one minute later, however, it was Antonio who had been made to eat something, and that something was the floor.
Matthew stood above him, both hands clapped to his mouth in horror, while the five onlookers roared with laughter.
"Did you do that on purpose?" Ludwig asked, incredulous. He had, again, declined to participate, but stayed to spectate for the entertainment value.
Matthew fervently shook his head. "Antonio, I—I'm so sorry!"
"O-kay," Antonio mused, studying Matthew as he crawled to his feet, "I might have to rethink my strategy."
"I warned you," Lovino said primly, as he and Francis replaced Antonio and Matthew in the centre.
Matthew retreated to Arthur's side and let the Englishman put a soothing—only mildly condescending—arm around him as a fast, gyrating tempo began. Arthur saw the relief on Matthew's face; at least he hadn't had to perform to that, but the majority of his focus was on Francis. Lovino was a good dancer. His flexible figure moved in perfect time to the drum beats and choppy choreography, so used to dancing to much slower, suggestive songs that this saucy number seemed positively clean by comparison. It was Francis who was careful about where he put his hands; Francis who's steps struggled to keep-pace with the Italian's ribbon of movement, but that didn't mean he was a bad dancer. In fact, he was quite good, too. He was slower, his movements wider; his steps were sweeping and his figure moved with a fluid grace that drew Arthur's gaze like a moth to a flame. The minute was over too soon, in his private opinion.
"Damn it," Lovino complained about his near-perfect score.
"You're going too fast," Francis noted. "Go slower next time, I can't keep up."
"Alright, Arthur," Gilbert announced. He chugged the rest of his beer, smacked his lips, and swaggered into the centre with a bravado that was more comedy than confidence.
Arthur meekly stood and joined him. "I can't dance," he forewarned.
"Neither can I," Gilbert shrugged. Then he leant down and, softer, so only Arthur could hear, added: "Keep your knees together and jump when I tell you."
It was a rather odd order, and Arthur was sure he had misheard, but the music began before he could ask.
It was, fortunately, a mild dance-number with more musical interlude than lyrics. Clumsily, he followed the steps on-screen, treading on Gilbert more than once; Gilbert, who seemed to be making up his own steps—making his boyfriend laugh, and his brother shake his head—until the end. Their point-tally was pitifully low, until the promised moment when Gilbert grabbed Arthur's hips and said: "Jump!" Arthur did so, and found himself soaring overhead as Gilbert lifted him in an arc. He choked on a surprised shriek before landing in a fit of laughter. On-screen, their score had doubled for flare.
This was how Gilbert and Arthur survived the game: alcohol-fueled creativity.
And on and on it went as the clock hands circumnavigated it's face and drink after drink was poured.
"I can totally do an Irish jig!" Arthur announced, inspired by a double-shot of whiskey and Gilbert's goading dare that he couldn't. "Hold this." He handed his empty beer glass to Matthew, then proceeded to bounce around in uncoordinated half-circles, tripping over his own reeling legs, until he accidentally kicked a coffee table and his dance degraded into hopping and cursing at intervals.
"I like Gilbert's Lord of the Dance better," Lovino joked. "You're moving your arms too much Arthur. Your upper-half's not supposed to move," he mimed comically, looking like a penguin.
"Alright, Mr. Professional Dancer," Arthur scoffed, cradling his foot, "let's see you do it then."
"I will!" Lovino accepted.
The Italian flailed around for a moment, then lost his balance and toppled into Ludwig's lap.
"Damn," he said, unfazed as Ludwig righted him. "It's a lot harder than it looks."
"I'll try!" Matthew said brightly, but he was met with a resounding, fearful chorus of:
"No!"
"Come on, Matt," Antonio said, resigned, like a man with nothing left to lose. He turned the game's difficulty setting up to the hardest level, and recklessly said: "Last dance; maybe we can win back some points."
"Because that worked so well for charades?" Matthew teased.
Antonio scowled, then pulled the boy against his chest, one hand clasping Matthew's, the other going to the curve of the boy's lower-back, and pushing a knee between his legs.
The threatening first strums of a tango filled the room.
Matthew paled. "No, no—I can't do this one. I can't—ah!"
Antonio ignored him, a look of fierce concentration and competitiveness in his jewel-green eyes. "I think," he theorized, starting slowly, "I've figured out how to dance with you. I need to keep you as close"—he jerked Matthew to the left, forcing rather than leading the dance—"as possible. Come on, Matt, you can do this," he coaxed, pushing and pulling; Arthur could see his muscles straining to guide Matthew's movements like a puppeteer. "Step back, forward; back again," he coached as they coursed through the seductive music, the Spaniard's steps getting faster and faster. "Now, turn—back, back, back, down," he said, dipping Matthew low.
Arthur watched the dance, captivated beyond the superfluous vanity of everyone else. Yes, Antonio looked like a fucking sex-god dancing the tango, but Matthew looked truly happy, which Arthur liked the sight of even better.
"That was fun," Matthew confirmed when the dance ended. "I actually stayed on my feet!"
Antonio smiled, but before he could reply, Gilbert interrupted:
"Fuck, Toni, I didn't know you could do that."
Antonio shrugged with feigned humility. "And I didn't know you used to have a little yellow bird. Now we're even."
"My turn!" Lovino insisted, leaping eagerly into his boyfriend's arms.
Antonio laughed and complied.
"Anyone else?" the Spaniard asked, a little out of breath after dancing with Francis and then Arthur, as well.
"I'm good," Ludwig dismissed, taking his leave of the party.
Gilbert chuckled and shook his head. Instead, he grabbed both of Matthew's hands and whirled him around to music of his own choosing. It was a much older song, slower and softer than anything else on the game's playlist. Arthur was surprised by it, but not disappointed. It's not old—it's timeless, he thought, lulled by the sweet melody. He swayed a little to it as he watched Antonio and Lovino fall into the demure rhythm beside Gilbert and Matthew. It was nice. He felt warm and peacefully dazed, and, because of that, it took him a moment to register the hand held politely out to him.
"It's just a dance," Francis said, smiling hopefully.
Arthur hesitated, then, wordless, took Francis' hand and let himself be led. He chose a position that hid his embarrassing lack of dance skills and avoided eye-contact; a posture which left him facing the windows over Francis' shoulder, but it didn't feel cold or distant. Arthur fit in the circle of Francis' arms, and Francis fit into his, their similar heights and figures making the slopes and divots of their bodies meld together like puzzle pieces. It felt natural for Arthur to thread his fingers through Francis'; to place a hand on the Frenchman's shoulder and squeeze in a gesture that said more than Arthur ever had. It spoke of love and lust and ownership, but also of loss and longing. It made his heart throb—not a thrilling pound, but nor was it a pang. Arthur knew it wasn't something he should let himself enjoy, as it would only confuse him—tempt him—but as his drowsy head lowered gently to Francis' shoulder, he felt at home for the first time in weeks.
The spell was broken some time later—it could've been a minute or an hour; Arthur had lost awareness of the time—by Lovino's self-satisfied voice reading the final scores of the game, and reminding Antonio and Francis that they had a bet to settle. Antonio's daring tango had not been enough to buoy his and Matthew's humiliating score, and they had finished the competition in third place with forty-eight points.
"Sorry," Matthew repeated as Antonio pulled his sweater off overhead, then his t-shirt.
"Come on, Fran," Gilbert grinned. "It's time to pay-up. You and Toni are running from the patio to the tree-line and back, butt-naked."
Francis pursed his lips, looking as if he had just swallowed something alive; looking as if he wanted to choke Gilbert, whose eyeteeth gleamed sharply in the neon television lights. Then he looked at Matthew, whose sheepish, apologetic face looked even more angelic with his braided crown, and the Frenchman's features fell into an expression of martyr-like sacrifice. "So be it," he said nobly, and began to undress.
Arthur moved to the windows to view the duo's punishment, still swaying with the last reminisces of his and Francis' dance. He watched with a bemused smile, and didn't laugh or holler or wolf-howl like his fellow spectators. He, at least, was enjoying the feast of tanned flesh they were being served as Francis and Antonio sprinted—lunging knee-high and shrieking like madmen—to the tree-line encircling the vast garden and back. By the time they returned, they were both red-cheeked and panting and dancing on-the-spot to shake the cold from their toes.
"A worthy effort, gentlemen," Gilbert mocked, tossing each of them a knitted throw.
"H-H-Hey," Antonio frowned in retrospect, "if it's M-M-Matt's f-f-fault we l-l-lost, why didn't h-h-he have to run t-t-to the f-f-fucking t-t-trees?"
"No problem, I'll do it!" Matthew accepted the challenge. "I'll do it even faster than—"
"You're not going anywhere," Gilbert denied, looping an arm around Matthew's waist.
Matthew cocked his head and pouted. "Why not? Jealous—?" he asked, dragging a finger down the German's chest.
"Maddeningly," Gilbert teased. He grinned down at the boy wrapped in his arms, into a flushed, bright-eyed face unobstructed, for once, by pale curls, and he said: "You're so cute."
"Hold onto that thought," Arthur warned.
"Matt's alcohol tolerance is shit," Lovino translated. "He's just a baby," he cooed condescendingly, "and he's going to throw-up on you later. I guarantee it."
Matthew frowned. "I will not," he argued childishly. "Don't listen to them, Gil, they're jerks," he told Gilbert, who didn't seem bothered by the prediction. "I'm perfectly fine," he insisted huskily, his demeanor going from excited to clumsily seductive so fast it made Arthur dizzy. As he spoke, the boy leant toward Gilbert, then fell against his torso when his legs buckled. He wrapped his arms around Gilbert's neck—for intimacy or support, Arthur didn't know—and found himself pleasingly nose-to-nose with his boyfriend, whom he kissed.
Francis chuckled from a position of endeared experience. "Old enough to know better—" he teased.
"—still too young to care," Arthur finished in reflex.
He looked at Francis, and Francis looked at him, and they smiled, sharing the moment, and then it was gone.
"I feel like I'm watching foreplay," Lovino quipped at the snogging couple, while at the same time rubbing his half-naked boyfriend's shoulders, trying to warm him up. "If anyone's dick comes back out, I'm leaving," he declared indignantly. "Unless it's yours," he added to Antonio, "then I'll stay."
"It's bedtime," Gilbert suddenly announced, fooling no one. "You lot can stay up doing whatever you want," he offered dismissively, "but I—we're going to bed."
That said, he swept Matthew into his arms and departed, chased by Lovino's cynical send-off:
"I hope he throws-up on you!"
"Well, that was inevitable," Antonio said once they had left. He pulled his t-shirt back on inside-out. "Really, I'm flattered they stayed down here with us for so long. True friendship, right there. I say we polish off that bottle of brandy, just for spite. Who's in?"
"Huzzah!" Arthur agreed.
FRANCIS
Francis undressed to his boxer-shorts and a sleeveless white t-shirt, then flopped into bed. The frame didn't squeak, the headboard didn't rattle, and the hard mattress barely dipped beneath his and Antonio's weight, so stiff and solid. No one would hear a thing, no matter what you did in here, he thought tiredly, admiring the bed's discretion. If only the walls were thicker. (The party had migrated back into the larger lounge when they realized that Gilbert's bedroom was directly above them.) Antonio tossed off a number of pillows as he crawled in beside Francis, but Francis didn't mind. He didn't like a bed crowded with inanimate objects either.
Arthur does, he remembered. Arthur likes to sleep in a nest. He sleeps curled-up like a cat. It's cute. He's so beautiful when he sleeps, makes me want to hold him.
He sighed deeply.
"Fran?" asked Antonio at his back. "Are you okay?"
It was often Francis asking after Antonio's wellbeing at the end of a night of reckless binge-drinking, but the Spaniard had obediently abstained since eleven o'clock and had been, at this point, sober for several hours. Francis, on the other hand, felt like his whole body was composed of cotton-balls. He felt full, but as light as air. He had barely noticed the floor beneath his feet or the clothes on his back—or, lack thereof; he had barely felt the cold during his and Antonio's mad dash outside. What he had felt, acutely, was Arthur's head on his shoulder, his skinny frame pressed gently to Francis' and moving slowly as they had danced. If they had been alone, Francis would have kissed him—and probably got slapped for it, he considered regrettably. Francis had caught Antonio's eye over Lovino's head and knew by his friend's sympathetic expression that he had made a mistake asking Arthur to dance. He must have looked like a desperate fool for Antonio to eye him like that. A subtle shake of the Spaniard's tousled head had advised Francis against further action, then he had lowered his mouth to Lovino's ear and whispered something that Francis couldn't hear. Lovino's face brightened with wicked delight and it was then that he loudly reminded everyone of the wager. In retrospect, Francis was grateful to Antonio for the wise interruption, but in the moment he had resented him for the emptiness he felt when Arthur stepped away.
"Fran—?" Antonio repeated. He turned and looked over his shoulder at Francis; Francis could feel his body-heat. "Do you feel okay?"
"No," Francis blurted without thinking. "I love Arthur, but he doesn't love me. And you're being so mean to him," he chided, channeling his repressed emotion.
He heard Antonio sigh.
"Fran, you're tired," he said gently. "Go to sleep, okay? You'll feel better tomorrow."
"I'm not tired, I'm fucking pissed," Francis acknowledged. He knew it was the alcohol bringing about this drowsy tantrum, but he didn't care. "And I love Arthur, but I'm stuck here with you instead."
"What's wrong with me?" Antonio asked sadly, jokingly, trying to abate his friend's misplaced anger.
The tact worked. Francis sulked for a minute, but he couldn't stay upset. "Nothing," he relented. "I like you, Toni. But—" he rolled onto his back and looked up at the Spaniard, "—wouldn't you rather be with Lovino?"
"Yes," Antonio admitted, "but I don't mind sleeping with you either. Just like old times, right? Remember all of those secret sleepovers?"
Francis felt his lips curling into a reminiscent smile. If he had been Antonio's escape back then, then Antonio had been his shield. Antonio smiled back at him, and it was such a nice smile. It was Francis' best-friend's smile.
"But you love him," the Frenchman whispered, urgent.
It seemed suddenly important that they should discuss Antonio's relationship right now, alone, in the dark, at half-three in the morning. Francis knew that Lovino was special to Antonio; he could see it. So, why was Antonio being so blasé about his feelings? It seemed important for Francis to explain to him about love and commitment, as if Antonio were a clueless schoolboy and Francis a guru, but the Spaniard dismissed him with an amused twinkle in his green eyes.
"Fran, you don't have to worry about Lovi and I. We're just fine, okay? Now, go to sleep."
But I do worry, Francis thought in secret. A secret, because he didn't quite trust the Italian yet with his best-friend's heart. Toni needs more than what most people are willing to give. Will that be you, Lovino? (He didn't even know Lovino's surname.) Before I let you have him for good, I need to know that he's as special to you as you are to him. I need to know you'll take care of him.
"Toni—?" he said softly.
Antonio hummed in reply, then, a moment later, asked, "Yeah?" when Francis failed to speak.
A long, loaded silence filled the space between them before Francis asked: "Why doesn't Arthur want me?"
Antonio didn't answer. Instead, his sweet indulgence softened into deep, loyal affection. He pulled the duvet up over Francis' bared shoulders and pushed a stray lock of fine, blonde hair off his flushed face. He dried his cheeks, and pressed a tender kiss to Francis' temple. And, quietly, he said:
"Paco, go to sleep."
GILBERT
Gilbert lay on his side in the dark, one arm shoved under his pillow to prop it up; the fingers of his other hand, his left, dominant hand, tracing a whispered touch across Matthew's skin. It was soft, cold, and discoloured where old bruises were taking a worryingly long time to heal, but he didn't flinch at Gilbert's careful strokes. He stayed asleep, enjoying the soundless oblivion of an alcohol-induced slumber, his body as limp as a ragdoll's. His cheeks were flushed, and his lips were rosy and swollen, and his long eyelashes quivered prettily as he dreamt. Gilbert was honestly impressed that the teenager had lasted as long as he had. (Grateful, he should say, because even clumsy, drunk sex with Matthew was amazing—his kisses had tasted like candy, his tongue laced in more sugar than liquor.) He got the distinct feeling that Matthew had been trying to keep up with the rest of the party's reckless consumption without the tolerance for it, as Lovino had said.
You're going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow, sweetheart, he thought, smiling in pity. But I'm glad you had fun. I had fun, too. I always have fun when I'm with you.
Wherever Matthew was, was where Gilbert always wanted to be.
I'm so glad you're here, he thought more soberly, tenderly, and with no small amount of relief.
Seeing Matthew so relaxed and gleeful, playing games, making jokes, imbued with liquid-courage enough to forget his fears and anxiety, all made Gilbert really happy. He loved having Matthew in his home, never more than an arm's length away; he loved how well he fit into his family—teasing Ludwig, spoiling the dogs; and he loved that he got along so well with his best-friends. (Francis, especially, looked like he had fallen head-over-heels in love with the boy.) As he lay there in bed, he felt lucky to have Matthew lying beside him, because the boy was unlike anyone else he had ever met. He knew that Matthew was a faithful partner who would never cheat on him; knew he wasn't shallow; and knew, inherently, that he wasn't after the Beilschmidt's fortune. If asked, he couldn't have explained how he knew these things, but he doubted that anyone lucky enough to make Matthew's acquaintance would argue the opposite. He made Gilbert feel things he hadn't felt in a long, long time, and some things he had never felt before. It was a new and liberating revelation to feel so connected to—so loyal to—someone who wasn't a member of his own family.
Blood is a bond, his father had taught them. Blood is forever. There is nothing in this world more important than family.
Well—fine, Gilbert thought, looking down at Matthew's peaceful face. There's more than one way to join a family. Inducted members are important, too.
The proposal should've taken him off-guard, but it didn't. It should've scared him, but it didn't. It was a mere fantasy—for now. But if Gilbert could close the Club 69 case; if he could keep his friends and family safe; if he could get that promotion and fulfil his father's expectations, earn the man's respect; if he could somehow convince his stoic, traditional family that Matthew Kirkland was a good partner, then maybe...
Gilbert knew now that he would fight to keep his nineteen-year-old bartender for as long as he could. He had felt horrible for not taking Matthew to the gala, especially after the boy's courageous confession. "You really hurt my feelings," he had said, making Gilbert feel like the lowest, cruelest being on earth. He should have listened to Francis' advice and not hidden like he was ashamed of his boyfriend, because he wasn't. No one had ever trusted him the way Matthew did, and that kind of devotion deserved to be reciprocated.
Well, one other person trusted me, he corrected, and it was exactly that reason why he had to be careful; why he couldn't reveal his connection to Matthew just yet, for the boy's safety.
Family stuff, he thought bitterly. But he wouldn't think about it now.
Now was a time to think about his boyfriend, his future—a future with Matthew in it. Could it happen? Could he really, honestly make it happen?
Maybe, maybe not. But Gilbert Beilschmidt finally knew one thing with absolute certainty as he leant down and kissed his boyfriend goodnight:
"Ich liebe dich."
BJØRN
Come here," Mikkel said, his hand extended.
Bjørn didn't hesitate. He crossed the floor and crawled onto the bed, letting Mikkel's arm close around him. Then he curled against the Dane's upright figure, like a small, frightened creature seeking comfort. His willowy arms went up around Mikkel's neck, needy, and Mikkel's muscular ones ensnared his torso, his hands spread wide across the Norwegian's back. Bjørn's bare skin was cold and tingled where Mikkel touched. He laid his head upon the Dane's shoulder, his forehead pressed to the alcove of Mikkel's throat. The Dane kissed his pale crown in tender affection, his hand rubbing up-and-down the Norwegian's arched spine, and he said:
"The nightmare again?"
Bjørn's eyes scoured the bedroom, clinging close to Mikkel to blockade the shadows. "Yes," he whispered, an admission of weakness.
It was silent for a moment, so silent Bjørn could hear Mikkel's measured breaths; imagined he could hear the blood pumping through his veins. Then the Dane's deep, rasping voice said:
"Don't be afraid." It was an order, a forceful truth. He held Bjørn tighter, possessively. "They can't hurt you, not anymore. You belong to me now, min elskede. And I will never let anyone ever touch you again."
Bjørn's body slowly relaxed, uncoiling in the safe envelopment of Mikkel's protection. Together they shifted down beneath the blankets, but stayed close. Bjørn rested his head on Mikkel's broad chest and, eventually, his eyes fell closed, shielded against the shadows that haunted him. He fell asleep to the feel of Mikkel's warmth, his love, and his strong, beating heart.
Mikkel, his vicious, unbreakable protector. His mountain.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a rather long filler chapter, but I hope you won't judge me too harshly for it, because I had a lot of fun writing it. The plot will resume more obviously in the succeeding chapter, but, for now, I hope you all enjoyed this festive little interlude. Cheers! :D