Antonio nervously switched the bouquet of cornflowers from hand to hand, as Francis anxiously twitched the box of beer back and forth.
"So…do you want to knock?" Antonio smiled hopefully at Francis.
"I would not wish to deprive you of the chance, mon ami." Francis replied quickly.
"But I might accidentally crush the flowers." Antonio shot back just as speedily.
"But I wouldn't want to crack the beer bottles."
"I really think you should knock on the door, amigo. ¿Por favor?"
"No, I think it would be best if you knocked, Antoine."
"No, really, you should…"
,,
"How long do you think they're going to stand out there?" Tino cocked his head as he watched the two men arguing on his neighbor's front porch.
Berwald grunted a noncommittal response without looking up from his newspaper.
"TinoTinoTinoTinoTino!" Peter swung into the room, socked feet sliding on the hardwood. "He texted me, and he wants to go see a movie, and I really want to go, but I don't want to say yes too fast and sound too eager, and what do I do?"
Tino put his hands on Peter's shoulders. "What on Earth are you talking about?" He could feel Peter shaking with excitement.
"Raivis! We've been texting all day, and he just asked if I wanted to go see a movie with him, and I haven't answered him yet, but I don't want to take too long, or else he'll think I've forgotten about him!"
"Who's Raivis?" Tino felt very out of the loop. Berwald's equally confused expression made him feel only marginally better.
"He's this really shy guy in some of my classes! He's Latvian, and he's really nice, and his brother is this super geek that can fix any computer, and he practically made Raivis's phone, and it gets free internet, and free texts, and free calls, and free everything and it's so cool, and Raivis is really—"
"Peter! Slow down! You said you wanted to go to a movie?" Peter nodded violently. "That's fine with me as long as you bring your phone. Do you know when?"
"Um…" Peter whipped his phone from his pocket and sent a lightning-fast text. A few seconds later, it buzzed a tinny version of Yellow Submarine by the Beatles. Peter snapped it open. "The movie starts at five. Can I have dinner at his house?" Peter added the second almost as an afterthought, as he continued reading the response.
"I-I guess. It's alright with me. Berwald?" Tino looked at the man in question.
"Mm."
,,
"…no, Antoine, really, you should be the one to knock. You knew him longer, after all."
"Mi amigo, that might be true, but you were friends with him longer. So you should be the one that knocks."
"But mon ami, you should knock precisely for that reason."
"Francisco, you—"
"Can I help you, gentlemen?" Matthew swung his door open and stood with his hands on his hips.
"Euh…"
"Pues…"
"Do I know…Mathieu? Is that you?" Francis nearly dropped the beer. "You've grown! You were so small when I last saw you!"
"I-it wasn't that long ago, Francis…" Matthew was a bit embarrassed at having not recognized his second cousin immediately, but Francis didn't seem to care.
"¿Qué? Do you two know each other?" Antonio looked between them.
"He's one of Francine's sons. Mathieu, what are you doing here?"
"I live here…what are you doing here?" Matthew remembered Gilbert telling him that one of his best friends was Francis Bonefoy, but it hadn't really clicked in his mind just exactly who that was until now. The other one's probably Antonio.
"Y-you live here? You live here?" Francis gaped at Matthew.
"Um, yeah. You still haven't told me wh-what you're here for…" Matthew absently wrung his hands.
"A friend of mine used to live here. He, he died, and now it's tradition for myself and Antoine," Francis motioned toward Antonio, "to hold a sort of vigil on the anniversary. If we could just spend some time in your backyard, I promise we won't be too much of a bother…" Francis trailed off, looking oddly embarrassed.
"No, no, it won't be any trouble. Stay as long as you like. Y-you can even come inside, if you want. I won't make you stay out in the snow, especially if you're going to be drinking." Matthew motioned the duo through his doorway.
"I…merci, Mathieu."
,,
It felt like a punch to the gut. That was the only comparison Gilbert could come up with when he saw Antonio and Francis step into his house.
"Francis…T-Toni…" He had known they were coming, of course. They did every year. Gilbert had never bothered to keep track of how many times because honestly, he didn't want to know. But never, never, had they come inside before.
Gilbert had still been able to see them when they were outside, of course, laughing and crying and getting drunk on imported German beer all at once, sitting next to make-shift memorial and a posy of wilting cornflowers. But before it had always seemed so, so distant. Detached.
The moment Matthew had opened the door, that had all changed. It was scalding water and freezing wind and soulless screaming and a tombs' silence, chipping away at his sanity like a mason in fast-forward.
Gilbert pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, unwilling to do something so weak as cry.
But they were so close! He could smell Francis' expensive cologne and the faint scent of tomatoes that always seemed to linger around Antonio. If he wanted to he could reach out and touch them.
And yet, despite all of that, it was the look on Matthew's face that was somehow the worst. It was gentle and sweet, but Gilbert could see past the painfully polite façade. Matthew's gaze kept flickering from his guests to Gilbert and back again, unwilling or unable to focus on either of the two.
Gilbert knew that, for whatever reason, his distress was causing Matthew pain, and that hurt as much Francis and Antonio walking past him without so much as a glance.
,,
"It's different when we're inside…it almost feels like he's closer to us…like he's here, watching us…" Antonio took another swig of his fourth beer. His palm had warmed the glass neck of the bottle, but the liquor inside it was still cold.
"I understand. It almost seems like he's sitting here right next to us." Francis agreed, his own beer nearly empty.
Sitting across from the two of them, Gilbert began to giggle. He didn't notice when his gasping laughter became choking sobs, or when the two merged and became indistinguishable from each other.
He didn't notice, but Matthew did.
,,
"Alfred, pack up. We're going back to Matthew's house." Arthur stood in his son's doorway, arms crossed, siblings flanking him.
"Um, okay. For how long?" Alfred stood back to let his family in.
"Three days, a week at the most. Now hurry up! We haven't got all day."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying." Alfred wandered to his closet and pulled out his suitcase. "What are we going back for? It hasn't been that long."
"We have…business." Bhaltair grinned as he spoke, and Alfred was suddenly sure that he didn't want to know.
"Business that you are vital to." Ceilí added, crimson-painted fingernails flashing in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
"I'm done packing now. When are we leaving?"
,,
Matthew sighed as he shut the door behind Francis and Antonio. The growing line of gray along the horizon told him that yes, he had in fact sat up all night listening to two intoxicated men reminisce about his roommate in slurred, incomprehensible combinations of languages.
"Gilbert, they're gone." Matthew called softly. Gilbert had disappeared somewhere into the bowels of the house around midnight and hadn't been seen since.
"Yeah. I…I watched them go." Gilbert emerged through a wall, slowly gaining solidity as he drifted further from it.
"If I'm still here next year…do you want me to let them in again?" Matthew knew the question would hit a sensitive nerve, but it needed to be asked.
"I think I do. They are—they were my best friends, after all. Once I, once I got over the shock, it, it was kind of nice, being able to see them again." Gilbert wandered close to Matthew, and put his arms around him. The quiet embrace was gentle and needy, sweet yet bitter.
"Alright." Matthew didn't give more of an answer, just held Gilbert and let him cry, tears like rain and breath like the tide, unrelenting and imperfect but necessary, so necessary.
When they kissed it tasted of salt and reminiscence.
..
This chapter took a long time to finish…
Did anyone else notice that my writing style changed dramatically about halfway through? That's what happens when I write while sleep-deprived…
Mon ami-my friend (French)
Amigo-friend (Spanish)
¿Por favor?-Please? (Spanish)
Pues-(Spanish) It doesn't really mean anything. It's a nonsense syllable, similar to the English 'um'. At least, according to my Spanish teacher.
¿Qué?-What? (Spanish)
Merci-Thank you (French)
Yes, that was implied SeaLat.
That's about everything, I think…Equilibrium out!