Ch 5: Vater vs the Door

Gilbert had never really gotten along with his father.

That, was a fact. They just . . . never saw eye to eye on anything. Every time they happened to be in the same room, it always ended with a loud yelling match. Gilbert knew very well that he was a disappointment to the family, something to be ashamed of. He was nowhere near his perfect, gifted and normal-looking little brother. Ever since he was a child, the man always had a cold air around him, always keeping Gilbert at an arm's length. It had hurt, still does, and Gilbert couldn't help feeling like a failure after all of his best efforts to please the man. They had the tendency of crashing and burning rather spectacularly. It got to the point where he just stopped trying (because really, why bother?) but that just seemed to worsen their relationship even further, if that was even possible.

Which now brings us to right here, right now; Gilbert saw, to his horror, that his father's car was neatly parked up front . . . Aldrich Beilschmidt was, for once, home early. Even after serving detention for an hour, he still should've had about twenty minutes to spare, damn the world.

Which was why Gilbert sneakily snuck out back, on his knees, crawling in the bushes along the house's perimeter. He was currently located right underneath the bathroom window, one of his elbows nearly scraping the wall. Yes, all he had to do was break into his own home by going up the wall, and through the stupid window.

There was only one itty bitty problem.

It was also on the second floor.

And Gilbert was crouched low way down below. It looked waaaaaay too high from his position on the prickly ground. He didn't even know if the window would be unlocked.

He's never done this before. . . well, OK, that was a lie—he's done it before—but usually coming down, not going freaking up. The first time going down it had felt like he was falling to his death—heck, he twisted his ankle—but eventually got the hang of it after a few times. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea to jump out of a window. His father was waiting for him in his room for some unknown reason (another lie—Gilbert may have accidentally thrown something against the wall—that had been a horrid day) so his usual escape route involving the tree out his bedroom window had been blocked.

So, the question here is, was it worth it?

Gilbert didn't know. It looked pretty damn high from where he was hiding. Maybe staying in the bushes would be good enough. No one would think of looking for him here.

But he couldn't stay there forever. Gilbert slowly emerged from the bushes. His red eyes shifted from side to side; clear. OK. He got up, put a hand over one of the lower floor windows, prepared himself mentally, took a deep breath, and got ready to leap up—

"Bruder? What are you doing?"

Gilbert let out a very manly scream.

OoooOoooO

The albino teen sat on the living room couch, looking every bit as disgruntled as he felt—he also had leaves poking out of his hair, and some stuck to his clothes. He used a bag of frozen peas to nurse a bruise on his forehead. He glared angrily at the floor, mumbling something about "walls that shouldn't be there" and of "ninja-like little brothers."

Ludwig Beilschmidt, who was also sitting on the couch, sighed at his elder brother's incoherent grumbling. The fourteen-year-old shook his head; his brother had way too much energy to spare.

Someone cleared their throat; Ludwig turned to the man sitting on the couch opposite the brothers, and Gilbert's face remained stubbornly semi-covered by the peas. This man, of course, was Aldrich Beilschmidt—a person Gilbert didn't feel like being in the same room with. You didn't have to be a prophet or a seer to predict how this was going to end. A feeling of trepidation invaded Gilbert, and he prayed that his vater had yet to receive the call from Principal Var—

"Your principal called today."

Nevermind. Direct and to the point, curt as always. Unless it concerned a certain Principal Romulus Vargas, that is. It was almost amusing to see how the old German avoided even mentioning the old Italian's name.

"Did he now." Gilbert could also be curt, direct and to the point. Only difference was that Aldrich was more of a deadpan man and Gilbert geared off towards a more . . . sarcastic note. Gilbert shifted the bag of frozen peas a bit, and wearily peaked at the older man from underneath the weight. Cold, stoic, with a small indent over the eyebrows. Arms crossed. Icy blue eyes narrowed and hard. Body language: stiff as a board.

Ohhh boy.

His vater's eyebrow twitched; Gilbert braced himself.

"Expelled Gilbert?" Oh hold on now— "Haven't you learned anything by now, boy? Are you really stupid enough to get yourself expelled in your senior year of school?" his German accent thickened by the word.

Gilbert scowled. "Hey!" he started, indignant. "Look, I didn't—"

"DON'T INTERRUPT!" he barked, standing up, causing Gilbert to jump—the bag of peas slipped from his frozen fingers, and landed somewhere on the ground. Aldrich didn't usually raise his voice; he was more of a staring stoically in a way that makes your skin crawl type of guy. Gilbert had been about to open his mouth, but thought better of it—he decided for once to just shut up. It usually took more than that (and by that he meant a few sentences, not that Gilbert even got in a few words edgewise this time, so Aldrich was livid even before getting home) to get his father this riled up. "It's always the same story! You never do as told. NEVER. You don't behave, don't do what's expected of you, and you always have to have the last word!" Gilbert wanted to say something (what exactly, he didn't know) but was too wary to do so. Instead, he just stared angrily at the ground, wondering why they were doing this again. Gilbert already heard this before, multiple times. He wanted to scoff, to roll his eyes, groan. It was like . . .it would be like as if a teacher decided to preach how to add and subtract to a high school class. It would be futile and zoning-out worthy. No one would actually be paying attention, but at the same time, still hearing the words—words and instructions of things they already knew. That he already knew. And it wasn't fair. It wasn't true. He didn't argue for the sake of arguing. He didn't. He usually had a reason. He always had a reason. His vater didn't understand. He didn't understand him.

As their vater ranted in a way he usually never did (the man just exploded mein Gott) Ludwig sat silently on the couch, out of sight, marveling at how similar both Germans looked when angry. They both wore matching scowls and the same facial expression. Ludwig knew that this wasn't going to end well. But, then again, when did it ever? The fourteen-year-old felt like sighing. If only his bruder did what he was told.

Gilbert's temper was sizzling under his skin; everything was so unfair! He never got to explain his side of things! And even if he did get to explain, chances of being understood were slim to negative nothing. Hopelessness rose within him—nothing was in his control. Nothing. The combination of everything wrong in his life culminated to the feeling of despair in his chest, the itchiness of his throat. He could feel tears forming underneath his eyes. He stayed very still, unblinking. He refused to cry. All he had left was his—his—his what? Pride? Gilbert was not only being yelled at in front of his little brother, but the whole neighborhood as well. Vater could have a loud, booming voice when he wanted. And Gilbert could be louder still.

The faint sound of keys unlocking the door greeted them. Aldrich paused his sermon.

"Hellooo?" came a tentative female voice. Oh great. Just what he needed.

Aldrich cleared his throat, ice cold eyes never leaving Gilbert's rebellious form. "In here, darling."

Ms. H. Came into the room, a reddish hand-purse in one hand, coat hanging from the same arm.

The green-eyed, brown-haired teacher saw them in the living room, hesitated, and stepped up to Aldrich. She kissed him on the cheek.

"Had a good day, sweetie?"

Ladies and gents, here you have the true reason of why Gilbert will never get along with Ms. Héderváry; she and his vater were dating, despite the large . . . age difference.

Aldrich grunted.

. . . and the different personalities. Seriously.

Now, while Gilbert wasn't a big fan of those two, he did appreciate the distraction.

Before anyone noticed, Gilbert slipped away from the living room. He was not getting yelled at in front of his English teacher! And much less by those two at the same time! No ficken way.

"GILBERT!"

Aforementioned person ran upstairs, across the hallway, into his room, and slammed the door shut. He heard his vater angrily make his way up the stairs (there was stomping involved—and they called Gilbert childish?) and voices of the male and female variety—probably Ms. H's helpful comments on how to "control" him—but Gilbert was having none of it today—as many days.

He grasped his blue swivelly chair, swung it in one half-circle motion from front to back, and shoved it under the doorknob—leaning, wheels still rolling and at an angle.

The knob attempted to turn. It failed.

"GILBERT ALDRICH BEILSCHMIDT! Open the door!" Angry pounding. Gilbert stared at it, eyebrows raised.

"Uh. No." Common sense, my liebelings. Common sense.

"GILBERT! That's no way to talk to your father!" screeched Ms. Hédeváry. Whatever.

Angry, hushed voices came from the other side. Huh. They must be talking. Gilbert did not care. "HE CALLED YOU A WHAT?" Gilbert cringed. He reaaaaaaally hated the relationship between Ms. H. And his vater. She told him everything that Gilbert did during the day—none of which was good. Because Gilbert never did anything good. More angry, hushed conversation. The albino teen felt very tired. So much energy was put in every day. It was exhausting.

Gilbert sat down on his white covered bed, right on top of the giant, black, regal-looking Prussian eagle. He did not take his eyes off that door.

He knew from experience that Ms. H. was quite capable of kicking doors down. Admittedly—it was pretty cool. But not so much when there was a pissed Hungarian followed by an equally pissed German on the other side.

Mein Gott, he needed a break.

His blood-red eyes trailed off to the window . . . Hmmm . . .

A/N: Hi.