So I obviously did not get these done in June, but I do want to finish up! I'm so enjoying being back in the TYD universe.

So, have some Gilbert backstory. I know; it wasn't what I was expecting either.

Some very oblique references to Mattie's suicide attempt. Only other content warnings are for smoking and alcohol, as this is unavoidable with Gil.

Gilbert awakes at five in the evening to the sound of the doorbell.

"Ludwig," he attempts to holler, but it comes out as more of a dry croak. He clears his throat. "Ludwig!"

The brothers' parents are, as usual, out of the house. Gilbert can't remember where they are this time, and it doesn't particularly matter. Wherever it is, they aren't likely to be back until late, if they're coming home tonight at all. Gil grimaces. Is it August? If it's August already they might be in Aruba. Whatever.

The doorbell rings again, followed by a weak trio of knocks.

"Ludwig!"

His shout fades into the silence of the empty house, and he finally shoves off the blankets and slouches out of bed. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his pajama pants and saunters to the mirror, where he spends a moment rearranging his bedhead. He glances at the pack of cigarettes on his dresser, then deftly slips one out and sticks it between his teeth. He hesitates over the lighter, but—what the hell—Ludwig's apparently not here, so he holds the flame up in front of his face and inhales.

Another set of knocks.

"Ah, fuck." Gilbert takes a long drag from the cigarette in his mouth and sticks a couple extras in his pocket.

As he makes his way down the stairs into the dark front hall, he can hear a voice, faintly, on the other side of the door. It seems to be calling his name, so there goes his hope of waiting for it to go away. He peers through the cut glass window at the top of the door and sees blond.

An easy smirk slides over his face and he opens the door. "Hey, Al—"

But it's not Al.

"Matt?"

Mattie grimaces involuntarily at the nickname and rubs his left elbow awkwardly. "Hi Gilbert."

The older boy blinks very unsuavely and removes the cigarette from his mouth. "What are you doing here?"

Mattie, however, blinks right back, giving Gilbert time to regain the upper hand.

"Wanna come in?" he drawls, stepping aside and gesturing dramatically with the still-burning butt of his cigarette.

His visitor steps cautiously across the threshold, jumping slightly as the screen door rattles shut behind him. Gil fishes in his pocket for one of the cigarettes there and holds it out to Mattie.

"Want a smoke, Matt?" He smirks, waiting for the discomfort or annoyance his offer is sure to produce.

But Mattie just says, "Sure," and takes it.

Gilbert blinks, finding himself suddenly on the back foot again.

"Uh. Okay. Do you—Do you need a light?"

Matthew sticks the cigarette in his mouth and juts his chin forward. Gil, thoroughly bewildered, clicks the lighter and watches as the younger boy inhales, cautiously at first, and then more deeply. Even the sight of him obviously suppressing a cough cannot return Gilbert to his usual state of superiority, and he's still staring dumbly as Mattie walks down the hall towards the sitting room.

Al. He should call Al. But his phone's still upstairs and what the hell would he say anyway? "Hey dude, your kid brother is smoking cigarettes in my living room"? Gilbert doesn't really feel like getting punched today, so he just follows his visitor, waiting to see what happens next.

Upon entering the sitting room, Mattie perches on the edge of one of the large, leather couches that take up most of the space. Quickly, however, he stands up again, fidgeting with the cigarette dangling from his fingers. He paces to the window, then back, stopping a short distance from where Gilbert stands watching him.

"Do you have any alcohol?"

An extremely broad range of responses flits through Gil's mind, from deadpan "No," to "What kind of question is that?" to simply grabbing the handle of whisky hidden between the couch cushions. Remarkably, he does none of those.

"I didn't know you drank," he says with an air of suspicion.

Mattie just shrugs.

"So, uh—" Gilbert rubs the back of his neck— "Why? I mean. Did—did something, like, happen?" He has never felt so uncomfortable in his life.

Mattie's jaw tenses visibly. "It doesn't seem like your style to care."

Gil swallows. It's not, but he can't shake the feeling that something is very wrong.

He hasn't seen Al in almost a month. It was Al's birthday, and they had just gotten back from a grocery run for orange juice. Gilbert was about to break into a case of his dad's champagne, when Al made a strange, strangled noise.

"Okay there, bro?" Gil started to ask, then stopped short when he saw his friend with his phone by his ear, white as a sheet. "What's up?"

Al didn't reply, just stood up abruptly and left. Gilbert hasn't seen him since; he's just received a text telling him Al would be staying back at Arthur's for a while.

Recalling all this, Gilbert looks hard at Matthew. There's nothing obviously wrong with him, but he looks bone-tired, and his eyes are dark and empty. He didn't even look like this the day Al left home and Mattie followed him here. Then there was fire in his eyes. Now there's nothing, and the hollowness there awakens something Gilbert hasn't felt in a very long time.

The last time he felt it was the first time Ludwig asked him why mom and dad were never home. The boys were sitting at the table eating cereal, legs swinging from the high dining chairs. The grandfather clock in the hallway was chiming nine, and Gilbert knew their parents wouldn't be back for hours, if they came back that night at all. As would prove true throughout his life, however, Gilbert failed to match his behavior to his true feelings.

"I dunno. They just don't care that much, I guess," he said, and took a bite of cereal.

Ludwig never asked about their parents again, and Gilbert never tried to say more, but the aching, protective impulse stayed stifled inside him for many years, only gradually reduced by as many years of doing whatever he could to act like he didn't care.

"Well maybe I don't care," he finally says. "But you sure don't look like you need a drink."

Mattie's fists clench, and he looks down, apparently surprised to see the smoldering cigarette still between his fingers.

"You don't know what I need," he mutters.

Gilbert shrugs. "Nope. And it's not really my problem. But it is my alcohol, and I don't want to give you any."

Matthew seems to deflate. He looks once more at the cigarette in his hand, lifts it to his mouth and takes a puff. This time, he lets himself cough.

"You can keep that if you want." Gilbert reaches for an ashtray. "But it kinda looks like you don't."

He holds out the small, ceramic dish, and Mattie stubs out the flame and drops the cigarette.

"Al doesn't like them either," says Gilbert. "He just stands around and tells Tony and me we're gonna die young."

Mattie snorts. "Are you?"

Gilbert shrugs. "Maybe. I like living life on the edge. But," his voice softens just a bit, "That doesn't really seem like your style."

Mattie shoves his fists in his pockets and works his jaw.

"Go home, kid. There's nothing you need here."

. . .

Gilbert walks him to the door.

"Tell Al I say hi."

Then the door swings shut and he's alone again.

He walks slowly back to the living room. The smell of smoke lingers in the air. He reaches between the couch cushions for the bottle of whisky, opens it, and takes a drink.