Early in the mornings, Gilbert likes to paint war. He dreams of it at night, battles from long ago that play themselves in his head like he's there. Or heis there, on a great black horse among the clamor and the bloodlust. The sound of metal to metal doesn't make him flinch as it might in the real world; he charges headlong into it with his sword high. And when he wakes he puts them on canvas while they're still fresh in his mind; by the end of the month his dreams will be hanging everywhere on the living room wall. Francis complains about them, but no one's made to take them down yet. Francis doesn't like war, but he can appreciate the aesthetics. His own sketches hang opposite, portraits of saints and a blue-eyed girl with a radiant smile. Gilbert isn't sure who she is, but he likes to pretend he knows the story. It's a strange juxtaposition between them, like so many people looking out at wars and skylines and prairies or maybe they're looking at the people. It's another one of those things not tangible but existent nonetheless.
Over the next week, Ludwig calls and texts Gilbert twice daily. It starts the day he comes home from his meeting with the boy in the park, and his mobile rings. He almost answers it — he is expecting a call from Antonio right then — but when he sees the caller ID he hits "ignore" and continues on his way. Ten minutes later he gets a text:
gilbert, call me when you get this.
"Sure thing, little brother," Gilbert snorts, and shoves his mobile into his pocket. Following that day Ludwig continues to call and text till one day he finally tries calling Francis. Francis is as civil as possible and tells him that yes, Gilbert is with them, and he is still very much alive and sort of being productive. Ludwig stops calling after that, but he still sends Gilbert the occasional text just to say hello. Never an apology, though, and that's what Gilbert is really expecting even if it's not what he deserves.
It's been a while since the last time Gilbert actually went out with his friends, so it's only half a surprise when one Saturday Antonio looks up from his crossword puzzle and says, "I was thinking we could go drinking tonight?"
"You an' Francis an' me?"
"And Arthur," Antonio adds, and Gilbert cringes.
"Ew, but what if he and Francis start acting all gooey? Francis is always — "
Antonio snickers. "Don't think we'll have to worry about that; judging from Francis's conversations with him, Arthur would sooner cut off his arm than try and be 'romantic'. Besides, we really ought to meet him. Francis says he'd like that, since he talks about us so often."
"Aww, does he, now?" Gilbert sneers. "Well, I s'pose it'd be nice to meet him, yeah. Sure, sounds good. Been a while since I've had a night out." And so it is that he and Antonio find themselves at the bar two blocks down, waiting outside for Arthur and Francis.
When Arthur and Francis finally make their way there, Francis is under an umbrella but Arthur is absolutely drenched.
"I don't want to share a sodding umbrella with you, that's just — it's cliché, is what it is, and I'm not going to have it!" Arthur is saying, quite loudly, with his arms folded tight over his chest; he's shivering a bit, but hiding it well. And his eyebrows — they're furrowed together so they're just one big eyebrow, and that's a little comical and Francis apparently thinks so, too. "I don't want it to look like — like I like you."
"No, we couldn't have that, could we?" Francis murmurs, rolling his eyes. "Hello to the two of you, by the way. Arthur, this is Gilbert and Antonio. You guys, this is Arthur."
"Arthur Kirkland. It's, er. Nice to meet you." Arthur tries a smile, and while his eyes smile his lips falter and twitch so it looks rather like he just smelled something terrible.
"Pleasure," Antonio grins, taking Arthur's hand and shaking it briskly. Gilbert says nothing. He's still looking at Arthur, frown on his face.
Silence follows. "Right, so," Arthur begins finally. "On we go," and he heads inside with Francis. Antonio turns to Gilbert.
"Don't like him," Gilbert shrugs. "C'mon then."
The bar is loud, the way Gilbert can remember, and he easily falls back into the usual rhythm of the place. The music is catchy; Gilbert hums along, grinning over at Antonio and Francis. They smile back, albeit a little uncertainly. Arthur's just sitting there, looking very uncomfortable but when Francis goes to pull him into their little circle he just flushes and pulls away.
"So," Antonio says, seating himself next to the Briton and taking a long sip of beer. "What do you do for a living?"
Arthur glances at him, blinking slowly. "Ah, well. I'm majoring in English, actually. 'D like to be a writer."
"And he is a wonderful writer, too," Francis adds, grinning, and all that earns him is a swat at his head. He grumbles, "Well," and goes back to a conversation he'd started with a pretty redhead on his right (as it turns out, Gilbert didn't have to worry about Francis being all over Arthur because Francis is all over everyone else; jealously seems to be the only way to earn affection from the Briton.)
Gilbert hardly listens to conversations between Francis and Antonio and Arthur, focusing instead on the pulse of the music. He doesn't dance, but suddenly he rather wants to and so he takes Antonio's arm and leads him into the center. Antonio laughs a bit, shrugging easily and following him (Francis tries to drag Arthur in but he isn't quite drunk enough yet).
They way they dance is less dancing and more outright flailing. Gilbert's always been an awkward dancer; Antonio just enjoys making a fool of himself in public. The lights are low and neither is able to really see the other, and the pulse of the music is frenzied and so is the way they dance, because Gilbert's forgotten what "reserved" means (did he ever really know?). It draws them some strange looks and they don't even care, because this is fun. Gilbert had never thought that being a moron in public could be so entertaining but it is, and by the end of the fifth song the two of them are tired and panting, stumbling against each other as they wait to regain their breath.
"You dance spectacularly," Antonio teases when they sit back down near Arthur and Francis (Arthur by this point is quite drunk, for his tolerance for alcohol is absolutely ridiculous, and is at present leaning heavily on Francis's shoulder blathering on about everything to everyone who'll listen). Gilbert rolls his eyes, playfully swats at Antonio's head.
"Could say the same about you," he mutters, ordering another beer. He goes on a bit in silence till he hears "Elizavéta;" then he's suddenly paying quite a bit of attention to Antonio's and Arthur's conversation.
"She's coming back to town?" Antonio asks in a low whisper, leaning in close to Arthur.
"Yeh, she. For good, think she said? Dunno, could be. She called t'other day, 's weird 'cos we never talk, y'know." Arthur gesticulates drunkenly, hands moving this way and that and he very nearly hits Francis's head.
"What about Liz?" Gilbert interjects, and Antonio abruptly goes silent. Arthur, however, is too drunk to know the meaning of the word "tact".
"She's comin' in next Wednesday!" he announces, perhaps a little too loud as he tries to talk over the music. "T'visit all 'er old friends an' that. 'Er maybe she said she was movin'? Forgot. Anyhow she's comin' alone." He snickers. "Wonder whot 'appened to her an' that cranky pianist, eh." And Gilbert wonders, too.