or, in which Gilbert rediscovers the enjoyment one can find in not drinking alone.
The flat smells faintly of Francis's cigarette smoke, of Antonio's cologne and, since recently, of Gilbert's paints. It's a pleasant thing, to them; it's theirs. Something they keep, a small, intangible treasure just like how Francis's CD case sits next to Antonio's guitar, atop a tall stack of books in Spanish and French.
They've got a schedule between them: from five in the morning to seven in the evening Francis is at school, then the local cafe as a waiter. Six in the evening to nine later that night Antonio plays guitar for rich people at a rich people's restaurant, making just enough money for rent and the few groceries that Francis needs to make his own sort of magic in the kitchen. And most days find Gilbert in the park with his paints from one to seven-thirty, or until he gets bored and decides to head home. After that the night is theirs, and they all share a pack of beers and watch whatever movies they can find on TV. Tonight it's Shaun of the Dead, for the third time that month, and they're still trying to figure out who's who in terms of them.
Francis insists that Arthur — whom Antonio and Gilbert have still not met, though Antonio can vaguely recall frequent scuffles between them back in primary school — is Liz, which of course makes Francis Shaun.
"That's dumb," Gilbert declares between sips of beer. "Seriously. You are nothing like Shaun. Obviously I am Shaun. But you can be Ed."
Antonio laughs and turns to Gilbert. "Oh? Who's Liz, then?"
And Francis and Antonio know what the obvious answer is, and they feel that beat of hesitation. But then Gilbert says, "You, of course," and they're all agreed on that point even though Antonio is nothing like Liz. Lovino is Shaun's annoying flatmate — despite Antonio's adamant refutation on that — and Ludwig is Phil. And this ruins the movie a little bit, because picturing Liz as Antonio severely diminishes what little sex appeal she has. By the end they're all asleep against each other, Antonio's face mushed into Francis's chest and Francis's feet pushing into Gilbert's side. If they could see each other now they'd laugh, but there's no one at all to witness this — this, whatever it is, but it's nothing new, really. Just something Gilbert hasn't been a part of for a long while. And the moment has passed when Francis gets up in the morning to go to school, carefully, so carefully, movements whisper-soft. And they go their separate ways.
Gilbert likes to paint the things behind people. Scenery, mostly. It tells a story, more so than the people in the foreground. Here is a brilliant sky, blindingly bright with the afternoon sun. And here, a bed of flowers, and miniscule grains of pollen carried on the wind. There, the green of grass bent to the sun. And there, the reflection on a puddle that hasn't yet evaporated. Then, the horizon. Start at the bottom and move on from there. Gilbert had forgotten just how good the feeling is, but his hands still remember and they capture the park on canvas like so many butterflies in a net.
People stop to look over his shoulder; sometimes they tell him how good he is or how gorgeous his paintings look. But mostly they just stop, and stare for a while, before they move on. He loves it, naturally. Each boost to his ego is something he treasures. He knows it isn't right, but that is in part what makes him want to paint. They won't notice him otherwise, so he makesthem.
Today it's bright, and the sun is warm on his skin, and that is nice. For a minute or two he sets his paints and brush aside and tilts his head back, eyes closed. It's the same sun, but it feels different whenever he bothers to notice it. It's the perfect day to be out, and so he stays on that bench and just paints until around seven when he decides to head back.
When he comes home Francis is sitting on the couch in his pyjamas, knees tucked underneath him and laptop perched on his lap. His hair is back, as it usually is when he's relaxing despite Gilbert's remark that he looks rather like a girl when he does that. The clack clack of the laptop keys is barely audible over How Soon Is Now? and Francis is singing along (which is funny, because Francis always says he hates The Smiths, but Gilbert hasn't any inclination to incite the rage of Francis so he doesn't say anything). He pauses the music when he hears the door close, though, and he glances up.
"Oh. Hello," he says, adjusting his reading glasses on his nose. "You're back early. Have fun?"
"It was nice out." Gilbert heads into the room to set his paints and artpad on the windowsill. "Lots of people out, too," he calls as heads back into the living room.
Francis smiles at him before turning back to his laptop. "That's good to hear." The silence is filled with the click of Francis's fingers on the keyboard. Then: "Oh, right. Look, I have an important paper due tomorrow, so do you think you could maybe cook tonight? There are a couple cans of soup in the cabinet for you to heat up." Without waiting for his answer, Francis goes back to typing. Gilbert goes into the kitchen to find said cans of soup. There's chicken noodle, beef stew, Italian wedding soup — how long have they been stocking these up? — and Gilbert stands there and thinks it over for a bit before he decides he's in the mood for chicken noodle; and anyway, Antonio'll likely bring back some leftovers as well.
They eat it in the living room with two glasses of orange juice and their feet on the coffee table, and in the background there's Edith Piaf, whose music Gilbert hates but Francis loves and so today Gilbert tolerates it. Francis is efficient, so he's about halfway done with his paper by the time Antonio opens the door and greets them with a warm, "Evening!" before hopping onto the couch beside Gilbert.
"Hello," Francis says absently, pausing to quickly wave with one hand. Gilbert grins, nods at him.
"How'd it go tonight?"
Antonio shrugs. "Not bad. Busy; lots of people, you know. But generous tippers, all of them." Antonio digs into his pockets and pulls out a wad of notes, dropping them on the table with an accomplished smile. "Look'it that, eh!"
"Nice," Gilbert says, and whistles appreciatively.
"And Belle and I are going out tomorrow, so I can take her somewhere nice and I'll be the one to pay, for once." Antonio seems awfully proud of this. Gilbert can't help but be a little endeared with the stupid grin on his face.
"Bet you two'll have lots of fun, eh?" Gilbert leers, and is rewarded with Francis's elbow to his gut.
"Don't be so vulgar, Gilbert."
"But you know they've been — ow!"
And Gilbert and Francis both have a good laugh at the Spaniard's blush. "Quiet, both of you," he grumbles. He adds, "I just want to take her somewhere romantic, okay?"
"French restaurants are as romantic as it gets." Francis grins at Antonio, giving him a thumbs-up.
Gilbert rolls his eyes. "There's nothing so romantic as a plate of snails for dinner, eh, Tonio?"
"Gilbert, let's not forget who owns this flat, hmm?" Francis sniffs. "And anyway, what would you know about romance? You haven't been on a date since E…" Pause. Gilbert keeps his face passive. "Since high school, so don't pretend you have any more experience that me."
"You can't even hold a relationship for more than two weeks!"
"I've been with Arthur for a month."
"A fluke," Gilbert snorts. "And you shout at him over the phone."
"Lovers' quarrels, I assure you."
"Sexual tension, more like," Antonio chips in.
"I'm going to go back to my paper and pretend you two don't exist." And with that, Francis is once again silent.
The rest of the night is quiet (Francis's deadline days always are), and Gilbert and Antonio spend it over a shared can of beer and a pack of cards. It's calm, and it's relaxed, and it's a little strange, too, because Gilbert had gotten so used to being on his own (he always had Ludwig, but Ludwig doesn't count, not realy). It's a welcome change from the past two months. Just — nice, this. Antonio's lazy smile is nice; Francis singing along to his music is nice, as is the closeness of their quaint living room and it's a little like being seventeen again. And he still feels a little bit lost, very insecure, but now he couldn't be happier.
Friday, it rains. It doesn't pour, it isn't a rainstorm. It's a light drizzle, one that cools the skin and cleanses the air. Gilbert loves the smell of rain, breathes it in as he steps out with his artpad under his arm, his paints in a messenger bag on his shoulder, and a red umbrella over his head. He wants to paint this moment, and illustrate the smell of the earth and the rain, right here, right now. Maybe he will; he can imagine how it'll look, all soft strokes on paper. Blues and greens and maybe a little bit of yellow.
The park is mostly empty when he gets there but for the few couples sharing an umbrella. He drapes his jacket over the bench and sits himself down, propping his art pad over his legs. It takes him a good ten minutes of careful painting to notice there's someone watching him. Blinking, he turns to the short brown-haired boy beside him.
"Um," Gilbert says. "Um."
"Hi." The boy smiles shyly and looks off to the side before back at Gilbert. "You paint very well."
"Well. Thanks, I guess."
The boy nods, points to the sky. "Especially the clouds. Um. Have you, like. Have you considered maybe selling your work? I have a friend who might be interested in buying your work, or at least meeting you to talk about painting and. Stuff. His name's Toris."
"Is it, now," Gilbert murmurs, glancing back over at his paintings. "Haven't considered putting this crap up for sale. You think people'd buy it?"
"Of course! I mean, it's — it's really pretty."
"Huh," Gilbert says. Then again, "Huh." He smiles at the boy and reaches over, ruffles his hair. "I'll think about it. And tell your friend to maybe meet me here one of these days. I'm Gilbert. Gilbert Beilschmidt."
Then Gilbert goes back to painting, and the boy watches the sky fold itself onto a piece of paper. He can swear he can smell the rain coming off it.