They decide to take it slowly at first – "I mean," Gilbert says, "I know New York's liberal as fuck, but that doesn't mean there aren't assholes around" – and Matthew nods at that, agrees. Not for reasons of safety, but because he preferred it better this way: low-key, slow, no one around to make a fuss or ask unnecessary questions. And seeing how their friends normally acted around – well, Matthew has only to think of Francis's reaction to already regret thinking about it.

And besides, now that it had finally happened – now that they finally knew, both of them – there are so, so many other things other things to think about.

So Sunday is slow; so Sunday is quiet; so Sunday is spent inside, four walls solid and strong as they talk long into the hours of the night.

Monday morning arrives, and Matthew does not quite understand how so much and so little time have passed by – it seems like days had passed, not the thirty-six hours that had gone by, and yet at the same time, it feels as though it had been no time at all. Some hidden, more rational part of him whispers that he was being dramatic, thoughts so eye-rollingly cliché they could have come from a Harlequin romance – but Matthew, who felt that miracles were more than enough reason for a little melodrama, roundly ignores it.

And it does feel like a miracle – after all those worries, all that time, to think that both of them (both of them!) –

Well. It certainly makes it difficult to think during class, and Matthew is still in a daze as he walks out of biology, head a fog of pinks and fluffy pastels –

"Mattie!"

And it is strange, really, the speed with which he springs alert at that, the readiness with which he turns around – but then again, he thinks as he sees Gilbert sprinting towards him, not really. Not really at all.

"Hey," Gilbert says, pausing to catch his breath as he reaches Matthew. Sweat glistening in his hair and hands on his knees, he grins up at Matthew before suddenly drawing back, darting a glance at the people around him.

"Hey yourself," Matthew says, smiling as he reaches a hand to help Gilbert up; around them, New York University mills, students going to classes or dorms without so much as a second glance in their direction. "I thought you had class right now?"

"Geralds was merciful, let us out early," Gilbert says, gratefully taking Matthew's hand. "And I've got an hour and a half til my next lab, so I thought, hey, why don't I see if Mattie's free for lunch? You are free, right?"

"Free until two thirty," Matthew says, smiling. "Anyplace in mind?"

"Ah, actually," Gilbert says, "never actually got that far into the planning stage. Um," he says, putting his hands in his pockets as they begin walking, "what about that that place we were supposed to go to on Saturday? Before, well, you know."

"Alhambra Cafe? It's kind of far – are you sure you'd be able to get back in time for your lab?"

"Yeah, well," Gilbert says, shrugging, "just a thought. You got any suggestions?"

"I was actually just planning to go to the dining hall," Matthew admits. "But maybe we could, um, just walk around until we see someplace?"

"That works too," Gilbert says. There's still a hint of tension in his eyes, as if he half expects someone to shout and start pointing at the two of them, but the wariness is gone from his shoulders and when he smiles at Matthew, it is the most carefree thing in the world.

Slowly, slowly. Neither of them had done this before – Matthew had been quite astonished to learn about that of his roommate, but Gilbert had assured it that despite all the rumors, it was – and they would take this at their pace, their way. After all, there was hardly any need to rush –

"For the last time, I do not fucking 'need a hug–'"

"Oh, pero Lovi, there's nothing wrong with wanting one –"

They glance quickly at each other, then back at the bickering duo under the Starbucks.

They could, of course, just walk past them, pretending not to see either Lovino or Antonio – but in the end, that would do very little, only barely delay the inevitable. People would find out, sooner or later; just because they had agreed not to flaunt it, it didn't mean that they were ready to hide what had happened, what they were.

Plans would have to be slightly moved forward, then.

They had hoped to wait a little bit – a few days would have been impossible of course, considering how nosy Francis and Antonio were, but perhaps one or two days more, just enough to get their bearings, break the news in a more elegant manner –

Matthew looks over at Gilbert, and he nods, wordlessly takes Matthew's hand in his.

Well. So that was that, then.

And, hand-in-hand, they walk forward.

"I already told you, there's nothing wrong – I'm perfectly fucking fine, okay –"

"But Loviii, daaale – you know it isn't healthy to keep everything to yourself –"

"Hi," Gilbert says, waving as they walk up to the table. "Interrupting something?"

"Mattie, Gil!" Antonio cries, effortlessly segueing from worry into delight as he turns to them. "Qué maravilloso, how are you– un momento," Antonio says, standing up, "I'll get the two of you seats –"

Gilbert looks at Matthew, who smiles, turns to Antonio.

"It's alright, Antonio," he says. "We were just on our way to get lunch – but we just saw you and thought we'd stop by. We uh, have something to tell you guys."

"Yeah?" Lovino asks, the scowl still lingering as he turns toward them. "That so?"

"Yes," Matthew says, bobbing his head up and down. "The thing is – well, um, you see – we're – it's just," Gilbert gives his hand a squeeze, and Matthew forces himself to look up, "we're dating."

"As of Saturday," Gilbert clarifies, lifting their intertwined hands into the air, as if for proof.

There is a moment in which they hold their breath, clutching each others' hand as they wait for the silence to break –

"Well, fucking finally," Lovino says, shrugging as he turns back to his coffee. "Took you two long enough – I was starting to wonder if I was ever going to get my five dollars back –"

"Lovi!" Antonio chides, tugging at his sleeve; Lovino rolls his eyes, deftly moves his arm out of the way. "But, oh, !qué fantástico!" he says, grinning as he turns to Matthew and Gilbert. "I'm so happy for you two – y ah, ahora, we can finally throw that party to celebrate! Although," he adds, looking suddenly worried, "I did buy that champagne a long time ago –"

"Idiot, champagne doesn't go bad unless you open it," Lovino says, scowling as he sips his coffee. "Besides, I'm sure if you really wanted something, my old man's got a cellar full of shit I could grab something out of –"

"Oh, ¿verdaderamente? That's so sweet, Lovi! Entonces," Antonio says, beaming as he stands up, "you have to let me buy you lunch now –"

"Wait, goddamnit, no," Lovino says, scowling as he grabs Antonio's arm, "I told you wasn't fucking hungry –"

"Pero Looovi," Antonio protests, giving him his best impression of a wounded deer, "you haven't had breakfast! Y además," he says, voice softening a bit, "you've had such a time of it, pobrecito, and after this Saturday, especialmente–"

"That," Lovino says, anger suddenly low and deadly as he glares at Antonio, "is none of your business, absolutely none of it at all." His eyes flash at Matthew, who just as quickly glances away. "And anyways," he says, turning back to Antonio with a scowl, "that's pretty rich going from a guy who cries at Nicholas Sparks movies –"

"You know," Matthew says, as he watches Antonio protest that no, no, Miley Cyrus's performance had really been inspired, "I think maybe we should go."

"Um, sure," Gilbert says, glancing curiously between Matthew and Lovino, "whatever works for you, I guess –"

"Are you guys really?" Michelle asks, putting down her coffee. "Well, congrats, then – although, damn," she says, leaning back and scowling, "I guess that means I owe Mei five dollars –"

"Okay, I'm sorry," Gilbert says, leaning back and throwing his hands in the air, "but this is the second time I hear about a bet – just how many people were in on this?"

"Oh, dix, vingt," Francis says, "twenty-six, peut-être? Merci for asking on Valentine's, au fait – I do believe I'm forty dollars richer for it."

Gilbert stares.

"Since when –"

"Oh, ne sais pas," Francis says, waving a hand, "December, November? We're all very happy for you," he adds, "seulement, some more than others."

"Right," Gilbert says, dragging the word out as he glares at Francis. "Shit, and you couldn't even get us in on the deal?"

"Tout est juste dans l'amour et la guerre, mon ami," Francis says, smiling as he sips his coffee. "À propos," he says, looking at his watch, "excusez-moi, I do believe I have an appointment soon –"

"Oh please," Michelle says, rolling her eyes, "don't tell me you're going to Ceci Cela again – you need to switch things up, okay? Try Cafe Olivier – I hear it's really popular with the expats around here. At least, the one that don't have hovering stalkers at their every step."

"Cruel, Michelin, très cruel."

" Tout est juste dans l'amour et la guerre, Frère," Michelle says, grinning at Francis as he, sighing in defeat, graces them with a smile and a quick "à plus tard" before standing up and purposefully striding away.

"Okay," Gilbert says as Francis disappears around the corner, "so I know I should have asked this earlier, but seriously, this is getting really, really weird. I mean, not that it ever wasn't weird, but this is getting into straight-up stalker territory now – and anyways, who even is he looking for? Do they have, oh, I don't know, a name or something?"

"Who knows?" Michelle asks, shrugging. "When Francis gets into these moods, it's impossible to get anything out of him. An old friend, is what I'm guessing. Maybe one of those people he dated while in boarding school or something."

Matthew and Gilbert glance at each other at that, and there is a short, brief moment when the same thought very clearly crosses their minds – Francis? Francis, who had won the hearts of half the female population at NYU but never slept with the same girl twice; Francis, who could charm the pants off of even the most heterosexual men but never seemed charmed enough to stay the morning after – that Francis? Their Francis? Getting sentimental over old relationships?

"Boarding school was a strange period in my brother's life," Michelle adds.

"Ah," Matthew says.

She nods, delicately cutting the crusts off her panini. "Really strange. St. Champagnat's was an all-boys school in, like, the deep, deep countryside – I don't think there was maybe one, two theaters, max. Nothing but cows and rich Catholic teenagers for miles. You can imagine what a nightmare that was."

"Enough about cows and assholes," Gilbert says, "I still can't believe it there were people actually betting on us –"

"Twenty-six of them, if you want to be accurate."

"Well, that's twenty-two more bastards I'll have to track down," Gilbert says, glowering as he stands up. "God, even fucking Tonio – I swear, when I find him again –"

"You're going?" Michelle asks, blinking as Gilbert slings his bag over a shoulder.

"Lab," Gilbert says, waving a hand. "Something about not missing

"Oh, right, yeah. Labs, classes, homework – education or something. That. Guess I'll be seeing you guys around, then?"

"You as well," Matthew says, smiling at her as he takes Gilbert's outstretched hand.

"Oh, um yeah, actually," Michelle says, fidgeting as she turns to him, "nearly forgot – but uh, quick question, Mattie?"

"Yeah?"

"Well," Michelle says, not looking at him, "I'm just wondering – have you, um, by chance seen Lovino lately?"

"Just yesterday, actually," Matthew says. "Why?"

"Oh," Michelle says, trying to be casual as she shrugged but falling quite short, "nothing really. It's just, we have Calc together, and he hasn't shown up last two classes – which isn't such a big deal, but well, it's just –"

Gilbert glances at Matthew, who gently squeezes his hand, gives him a slight tilt of his head that means later.

"Well," Michelle finishes, face slightly pink, "just, if he ever needs them, he can borrow my notes."

"I'll tell him that."

She nods, still not meeting Matthew's eyes as she stares at her plate. "Thanks."

"What was that about?" Gilbert asks as they walk away.

"It's a long, long story," Matthew sighs, taking his hand. "I'll tell you after class."

Of all the ways Matthew had imagined it would go, this, he decides, was definitely not it.

He had known, of course, that New York City was fairly tolerant; known, of course, that New York was a liberal city, communists handing out flyers on campus every other day and announcements of gay marriages printed next to those of straight ones –

But even so, even considering all that, he had expected something. Maybe not censure, the offer to get a priest or call an exorcist, but stares, maybe. Questions, whispers. Surprise, at the very least.

But it had not been there.

When they had walked into Greenwich Hotel, hand-in-hand, no one had blinked; when they had walked in together to a sit-down restaurant, the waiter had not hesitated to suggest a "private table for two"; hell, when as an experiment, they had kissed in the middle of Alpha Phi Zeta, except for a few fratboy whistles, there had been no reaction, practically none at all.

And that was the way it had been with the rest of their friends: no shock, no surprise, merely "congratulations," followed by the unsettling sense that they had known about this for quite some time. And Matthew couldn't help being unsettled – it is, after all, a decidedly surreal knowledge that you were the last person to realize you were in love in your roommate. More surreal still that at least half your dorm had been betting money on you.

("And the fuckers couldn't even get us in on it," Gilbert mutters, still bitter.)

But still, even discounting mercenary interests, all of their friends had been incredibly pleasant about it – often too pleasant, to be honest. Although both of them had flatly refused Antonio's offer of a celebration party – "what are we, getting engaged?" – that hadn't stopped him from handing them the bottle of Moët anyways (which, in the interest of saving his roommate's liver, Matthew had ended up drinking half of), and it certainly hadn't stopped their other friends from treating them like a pair of newly-weds.

First, it had been Antonio and his champagne; then Feliciano – the cheery freshman Matthew had seen earlier but whom he only now learned was somehow a) dating Ludwig Beilschmidt and b)related to Lovino Vargas – with gelato and a smile so large they had no way to refuse; then it had Francis, Francis and his "surprise party" at three am. In their room. While they were both sleeping.

(Matthew had made a vigilant effort to double, triple, and quadruple check the locks every night since.)

But worst of all was probably Yao Wang, who – in addition to being their RA, was also supposed to be an adult and thus far too mature for all this – had brought in a cake from Chinatown, delicious and beautifully decorated and iced with the words Congratulations on your new baby!

(Amidst the snickers, Yao had explained that it had a mix-up, something in the quick-fire Canto and Shanghainese that had given the worried-looking baker the impression that he was buying the cake for a baby shower – but all that hadn't stopped him from inviting their entire dorm over, and it certainly stopped any of the teasing since.)

It had been a little bit overwhelming, all the people and all the attention, but it was sweet, and besides, there were enough compensations to make up for it.

No, it wasn't the way Matthew had expected things to go – but looking at if from a week down the line, the gauzy fairytale fever still strong in the air, it seemed as close to perfection as he could ever want.

Except –

Except at the same time, it didn't feel quite right.

Oh, it wasn't the actual dating part that Matthew was unhappy about – that was perfectly well. It hadn't even been two weeks, but it felt like it had barely been any time at all, as though this were something that had always been, they had always been.

It's just, well, he had thought it would be...different. Had thought that now that they were going out that things would change – not majorly, of course, but that in some tiny, infinitesimally important way, being a couple would feel different. Not the way they were now, which was basically just roommates except with more hand holding and kissing – which wasn't bad, of course, not at all. It was just –

Just that, in all the rom-coms and Shakespeare plays he'd seen, it had been different. More intense, everything life and death and emotions so high it was a wonder the actors didn't explode from all of them. And okay, even if that was unrealistic, even if Romeo and Juliet wasn't how love really worked – and he hoped it wasn't, because Matthew was certainly not ready to see his friends die and half the city burn because of his new romantic status – they had have gotten some of it right, didn't they? The "willing to have half the city burn" part, at least. And even if he could have done withoutthe overwrought confessions and teary declarations in the rain, Matthew would have liked some of it, some of that intensity. That trust.

Because the thing was, the thing was –

The thing was, they didn't talk.

Well, actually that was inaccurate. They did talk, of course – all the time actually, actually, and about all sorts of things: school, professors, the new episodes of Game of Thrones or Teen Wolf (Matthew's suggestion and their new obsession), whether Francis would ever stop being cagey and just tell them who he was stalking... When it came to pure word output, then yes, they talked – were probably better than it than most couples, to be honest.

But the thing was, it didn't feel real.

Because even when they were talking, Gilbert was just so...cautious. Every word he said, every gesture – he probably thought he was being subtle, but Matthew could tell how guarded he was really being, how careful he was to strip all potential problems from his words, edit all causes for worry out of his texts and Facebook messages. The hard things – the unpleasant things – those were all absent, all shorn as easily from their conversations as easily as plucking the thorns off of a flower.

They talked, yes, but about the trivial things, the easy things; they talked, yes, but never about the right things.

"Hey, Gil?" Matthew asks one evening towards the end of February.

"Yeah?" Gilbert says, looking up from his desk, where he sat with a thick stack of chemistry notes.

"Well," Matthew says, shrugging as he sits up on his bed, "I was just thinking that, it's just, spring break and midterms are coming up, and I was just wondering – would you want to go out for dinner or something? This weekend, I mean. Before we get busy with other stuff."

"Oh," Gilbert says, sucking in his teeth, "oh, actually, I'd love to – it's just, real sorry about it but I don't think I can make it this weekend. I've got, um, shit to do. Downtown."

"Downtown?" Matthew asks, blinking. "What for?"

"Oh," Gilbert says, shrugging, "just, you know, things."

Which is so oblique and unnecessarily vague it was maddening – what, exactly, does that mean, things? Homework? A nuclear advent only he could stop? A gang shootout from which he had only a slightest chance of surviving, so Matthew should say his goodbyes while he could?

It's a lot of obliqueness, in Matthew's opinion, to dance around the fact that his roommate had a psychiatrist's appointment every other Saturday. Gilbert might have tried to hide the cause of forays downtown, but there is no hiding the scowl that he inevitably sports afterwards, the pamphlets and new bottles of medicine that occasionally show up on his drawer.

But of course, no, that was hardly the way to look at it; of course, no, it could hardly be his fault. It was frustrating, yes, but Matthew was sure Gilbert had his reasons, and oblique as they were, Matthew had to try, had to attempt to understand.

So Matthew tries to be calm, tries to be reasonable as he asks, "well, how about next weekend, then?"

Gilbert blinks, looks startled for a moment, hand still on the doorknob.

"Sure," he says finally. "That sounds good to me."

Translations

Spanish

dale – roughly, come on (hopefully I've used it right in this context – if not, feel free to offer corrections)

Qué maravilloso - how wonderful

qué fantástico - how fantastic

verdaderamente - really?

pobrecito – poor thing/boy

French

dix – ten

vingt – twenty

peut-être – maybe

au fait - by the way

ne sais pas - I don't know

seulemente – only

Tout est juste dans l'amour et la guerre - all is fair in love and war

À propos - (roughly) on that subject

And as always, thank you guys so much for reading and putting up with my procrastination! Your comments and follows are always appreciated, even if sometimes I'm too lame to reply to them ^^;