Life and Style

Chapter 11

AN: I had several people once ask me what happened to Gilbert after the chapter that described a large oil painting in Roderich's office. SO I give you Chapter 11, some of our regular story, and a lot of an unexpected one (one that I never intended on writing at all!)

Also, yanno, sorry for the horrid lateness of this. I've been terribly consumed by writer's block. BUT, if you follow my blog on Tumblr, you'll know that I have been drawing a lot... does that in any way make up for my lack of writing? Oh dear, I hope so.

The airport was big and loud and altogether frightening.

Matthew held tight to Francis' hand and with the other he held Kuma to his face, chewing on the bear's ear. His eyes were wide as they darted around, overwhelmed by the sensory overload of too large a space with too many people and too many unfamiliar sounds, all leading up to going somewhere strange. Even though his mum was at the other end of this whole ordeal, he couldn't help but feel a tight sense of fear in his gut at the thought of leaving Uncle Arthur and Papa Francis.

He squeezed Francis' hand as tight as he could and tugged on his arm until the man paused in their swift journey across the tiled floors to some unknown destination, Uncle Art proudly leading a few paces ahead.

"What is it, mon chouchou?" Francis cooed, gently settling down on one knee to look at Matthew in the eye. He called to Arthur to wait a moment and Alfred poked his head around their uncle's waist to look back at Matthew with wide, curious eyes.

"Papa Francis," Matthew forced himself to look at the Francis directly; he felt his hands begin to shake. "P-papa Francis, I don't wanna go!" The tears were beginning their travel up from the depths and spilling out and down his face before he could even finish his plea. Francis' expression melted from pleasant, controlled happiness, to concern, to sympathy in the blink of an eye; he reached for Matthew (and Kuma, too), pulling them into his chest and hugging tightly.

"Oh, chéri, please do not cry, I'm not sure I will be able to stop myself from crying, too!" He wondered in his young brain if that was supposed to be soothing, but Matthew processed it as something rather odd to say in his moment of distress.

"If it is sad for you too, then please don't make me go!" he cried, rubbing his face across Francis' chest, even though the buttons of his silky shirt hurt his nose.

"What's wrong, Mattie?" Alfred's bright, bouncing voice made Matthew cringe; he was far too happy about this.

"I don't wanna go on the plane," Matthew said, turning to glare over his shoulder at his older brother. He clutched Kuma closer and nuzzled further into Francis resulting in a tighter hug. He heard Arthur approach and saw his shoes on the tiles beside Francis, but he did not dare look up at him. He was being a bad, uncooperative boy and he dared not look up to the face that could get him into trouble, no matter how much he desired his reassurance.

"Don't worry, Mattie! I'm a hero! I will hold your hand if you are scared!" Alfred puffed out his chest and Matthew only glared more fiercely.

"No! I don't want to go on the plane and I don't want to leave Uncle Art and Papa Francis. I don't want to go to maman." Alfred blinked at him in confusion and tilted his head to the side. Francis tensed in Matthew's little grip and he returned his face to the silken shirt and started to cry so hard he wondered if he might accidentally suffocate himself. Francis started murmuring to him in gentle French, one hand holding him close and the other rubbing circles on his back. A second pair of hands began to smooth down his hair and a familiar British accent joined with the French, weaving in quiet words of understanding. This only made Matthew cry harder when he half-turned with watery eyes and saw Arthur kneeling on the floor next to Francis, his face pulled in worry; dark circles traced his eyes and his eyebrows were drawn in a deep frown.

"Arthur..." Francis' chest rumbled as he spoke, his voice coming out much more choked than his normal song-like trill. Uncle Art only shook his head and continued to run his hands through Matthew's hair until he had no more tears left to cry.

"But, Mattie," Alfred continued when Matthew was only sniffling and Uncle Art rose to his feet; Francis continued to hug him. "Mattie, it's been so long since we saw mum. Don't you miss her?"

"Yes," Matthew said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, "but I don't want to live without Uncle Art and Papa Francis."

"But, they will come too," he turned his attention to their uncle with wide, pleading eyes, "aren't you?" Alfred's lip began to tremble as Uncle Art visibly searched for words, chewing on the inside of his cheek and slowly shaking his head.

"No, pet," he said, "I can't come with you. Your mother wants you to live with her now in her new home and I have to stay here."

There was a moment of dead silence before Alfred broke out into confused wailing and tears started pouring down his face. Matthew bit down on his lip to keep himself from crying more and buried his face back into Francis' chest. It was unfair! Matthew loved his mum, but she was more often gone and he and Alfred left with a babysitter than at home. With Uncle Art and Papa Francis he had a home. He wanted to see his mum every day and give her lots of hugs and kisses, but the thought of leaving behind the two people that took care of him every day made his stomach drop into his shoes. Not even Kumajiro could help him feel better.

.

Arthur only barely managed to hold himself together for the remainder of the stroll through the airport. Alfred's tears soaked through his shirt and left him with an uncomfortable wet-spot that irritated his skin, a physical reminder of the emotional parting. He and Francis could only take the boys as far as the terminal gate before a cheery flight attendant met them, assuring Arthur that she would keep a careful eye on both boys during the journey (and assured Francis that they would be given any luxury they asked for should they need anything during the flight). The boys clung to each other and cried more as Francis and Arthur sat on the floor in the middle of the airport and hugged them close, soothing them as other travelers walked around them. Arthur didn't care.

His nephews felt like a burden when they first arrived on his doorstep several months ago. Now, he felt like his family was being ripped apart. The whole situation was made all the more sour because there wasn't anything he could do about it. He wasn't their father, he wasn't their legal guardian. Elizabeth was their mother and had every right to want her sons back with her. Surely she missed them dearly and she deserved to have her own family restored. Arthur wondered what sort of emotional distress she must have suffered through that first evening as she drove away in the taxi, leaving her sons behind with their disgruntled uncle.

Arthur heaved a sigh and let his head fall against the car window as he watched the world whiz by. One of Francis' hands left the steering wheel as he drove and dropped it to Arthur's knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. The moment the boys had disappeared behind the terminal gate they had said nothing more to each other. They sat in silence at a cafe table by the window until the airbus taxied away from the terminal; they said not a word as they watched it barrel down the runway, nose tipping up and wheels bouncing until it jumped into the air and began its ascent. They did not exchange more than a sad look between each other as they watched the airplane bank, turn, and eventually disappear into the distance. Francis only took Arthur's hand and silently lead him back through the airport and to his parked car. The atmosphere in the car during the drive home was frighteningly silent, heavy, and like it was on a tipping point. Arthur worried his bottom lip between his teeth and closed his eyes until he felt the car slow, turn, bump over the sidewalk and into his driveway. They sat in the car, Francis' hand still on Arthur's knee.

His voice barely above a whisper, Francis cut through the quiet with a gentle, "Arthur...?"

"What am I supposed to do now?" Arthur turned to him, his eyes finally betraying the emotional he held in check the whole afternoon; his throat ached with the effort to withhold his tears. The sight of Francis unraveling at his raw words broke the dam and the tears came spilling out at an alarming rate. "F-Francis-" he choked and Francis reached across the console for him, hugging him as close as they could in the car. "Lizzie wrecked my life by leaving them with me, they ruined e-everything I had planned for myself," he sobbed, "but I love them and now that they are gone I don't-I can't-" A string of French passed through Francis' lips as he peppered kisses across the top of Arthur's head. His own breathing was ragged and he paused to collect himself as he ran his hands up and down Arthur's back and tried to sooth him back to calm. "They changed everything and I don't know if I can go back to how it all was before," he wept.

They sat in the car for a better part of an hour before Arthur's emotions had run their course and Francis quietly unbuckled both their seat belts. Arthur didn't have any recollection of exiting the car, only he was suddenly being gently guided up the garden path to his front door. Once inside, an afghan was wrapped around his shoulders and a steaming mug of tea was brought to him while he sat staring at nothing in his favourite armchair. There were still children's movies strewn about the coffee table, and a box of toys tipped over, contents spilling across the living room floor. The house was silent.

.

Roderich sighed heavily and leaned back in his office chair, idly fiddling with his glasses as his eyes roamed over the too-familiar oil painting hung on the wall opposite of him.

He loved that painting; it was a love that would constantly stab him in the gut and twist like a guilt-ridden knife. He would never remove it.

The painting had been based upon a Polaroid photograph that someone had snapped in secret – his girlfriend at the time, now wife, Elizabeta. He felt the corners of his mouth tug into a sad smile at the thought of her witnessing such easy, natural affection playing out between himself and his dearest friend, Gilbert. The only person in the world for which Roderich would compose symphonies. He had started many, of course, penning the lyrical notes of grand exposition that would put his emotions into the only way he knew how to properly release them from the confusing cluster of thoughts in his head. He had never been good with words or expressing himself when it came to matters of the heart.

He often found himself wondering just how he had got himself a girlfriend to begin with, and why she married him. Eliza had been the one to march up to him in their final year or high school, boldly announcing that she thought he was rather cute and they'd make a good couple. He wasn't sure he was ever a good boyfriend. He was never really that interested in romance with her, but he enjoyed the company and the friendship that came with their strange sort of relationship.

Gilbert, however... Gilbert was the fire in his gut and the itch under his skin he could never reach. Gilbert drove Roderich up the wall and straight into crazy in ways nobody else could. He would drag Roderich kicking and screaming from his confines of polite propriety and into the most pointless of arguments that always left him red-faced and panting.

The first time they had kissed was shortly after one particularly rough argument that left Roderich stomping to the music room to abuse the keys of the piano there and let out his frustrations. Gilbert had sauntered in shortly after and leaned against the piano, getting his fingerprints all over the lacquered surface. Roderich balled his hands into fists and slammed them onto the keys, roaring in frustration; he grabbed at Gilbert's hand so he would cease marring the beautiful instrument that was supposed to be Roderich's comfort, not a source of his stress. He had meant to shove him away, but he couldn't bring himself to let go of the hand he had captured. What felt like an eternity passed between them, their eyes locked and Roderich forgot how to breathe. So did Gilbert, because he suddenly gasped before leaning forward and claiming Roderich's mouth with his own.

That was the tipping point of their strange relationship. They became a strange sort of complicated friends, perpetually on the verge of something more, something that neither of them could discuss potentially having. There was Eliza to think about, and Roderich loved her in the best way he knew how; additionally, falling in love with another man was never acceptable in his familial household. He had to be the good son who married a nice girl and raised a respectable family. He couldn't have burning passion and heated romance and kisses that were too much teeth and tongue and not enough tender touches and whispered promises in the dark.

Gilbert very quickly became Roderich's true confident and, together with Eliza, they were an inseparable trio. Roderich always wondered if she knew about how deep his affections for Gilbert eventually grew to; she was too smart not to notice, but she never voiced any concerns. She would quietly smile when Gilbert reached for both their hands, but held on to Roderich's a little bit longer, or when Roderich would lean against Gilbert's knees when sitting on the floor in front of him, rolling his head back as Gilbert absently ran his fingers through Roderich's hair. She watched on with a knowing glint in her eye, but said nothing, and still desired to be called Roderich's girlfriend.

After college Eliza had proposed marriage over dinner as if she were talking about the weather. Roderich had half a mind to turn her down, but she mentioned that both their families expected it, so why not just do it? He couldn't argue there, and it wasn't like he had any other options for marriage... Gilbert was furious when Roderich informed him of the news. That was the second time they kissed – Gilbert tried to convince Roderich to throw his comfortable life away and risk it all for – for what?

Roderich couldn't help but wonder how life would have been differently if he had refused to marry Eliza. Even if he never chased after that something more with Gilbert, would things have ended differently? Happier? Could he have helped change anything?

Gilbert settled after Eliza's quiet persuasion, of course, and stood up with them on their wedding day. He gave a marvelous speech and moved the room to tears with talk about how much his best friend, Roderich, meant to him and how luck he was to marry such a beautiful woman like Eliza. Roderich had a sour taste in his mouth the entire evening, but he played the part of a happy groom and did his duty as a new, loving husband in the night. He whispered he loved her with his face pressed into her hair and she said the same. They both knew it was not the same love that typically followed a wedding. Roderich's heart had been stolen away by an icy complexion, mysterious eyes, and a stupid lazy grin that made a shiver run down his spine.

The Polaroid photograph was taken while Roderich was practicing for a show – Gilbert dutifully followed Roderich's music career, as any best friend should. He would often arrive in town the night before to sit with Roderich while he practiced one last time, laughing with him and easing away any of Roderich's insecurities – something Eliza was never quite able to accomplish, no matter how hard she tried. She always seemed to hover just off stage, watching the two of them interact and never getting between. She would be ready with open arms when Gilbert danced away, chasing after whatever ridiculous dream he decided to follow, like a child running after a butterfly during a lazy summer afternoon. He got himself in and out of more sticky situations than Roderich cared to count and made his fortune wherever his feet took him. He always came home so he could be part of the audience for Roderich's opening night concerts. He always stayed just long enough to stir up emotions that would later spill out onto sheets of music as Roderich released his thoughts, composing symphonies dedicated always only to Gilbert.

Roderich had been in Austria on tour when he was interrupted in his dressing room, an international cellphone pressed to the chest of some nobody-stagehand. Roderich almost didn't take the call, insisting it couldn't be that important, he was ten minutes away from strolling on stage and playing his piano for an audience of several hundred. He eventually did, at the insistence of the hand holding the phone, pressing it to Roderich, pleading he take it.

He slipped to the floor and was made undone when the crackled voice of some family friend (he could no longer remember who, it wasn't important) told him that Gilbert was in the hospital. He flew home on the first plane he could find tickets for and didn't even stop at home between the airport and the hospital. He ran to the room once the nurse pointed it out and he skidded to a halt in time to kiss his wife hello on the cheek. Her cheeks were wet from tears, never a good sign in such a proud woman. She left him alone as he slipped into Gilbert's room, and eventually collapsing into a chair at his side. He was awake, barely coherent. He cracked some pitiful joke about how the awesome he would not be taken down by some silly illness. That was the third time they kissed. Roderich didn't care that Eliza was just feet away, likely watching from the door. He leaned down and took Gilbert's chin in his hands and pressed their lips together, chaste, without the teeth and tongue and passion that normally consumed them when they shared the same air. He felt himself crumbling, Gilbert's lips did not hold the same warmth that he remembered, that he dreamed about, they were rough and cool. Gilbert's eyelashes fluttered against Roderich's cheek and he broke away, pressing their foreheads together. Gilbert had the nerve to laugh quietly, happily, his eyes fluttering beneath his lids, remaining closed and keeping Roderich from staring into their mystery before he slipped away, like dry sand through splayed fingers.

Roderich cried out, even though Gilbert couldn't hear him. He screamed his name, pressed their lips together again and whispered the words they had longed to exchange for the majority of their relationship.

"I love you, I love you, oh God, Gilbert, I love you, please," he choked, kissing him again and again, "please, my heart is yours, it was always yours, it will forever be yours, I love you!" At some point Eliza came to peel him away, still reaching for his best friend, sobbing uncontrollably.

He never wrote another symphony.

Roderich was startled out of his reverie by a knock on his office door. He wiped away at the moisture building in his eyes before clearing his throat and summoning his most commanding voice, bidding the person on the other side to enter.

His eyes widened a fraction when Arthur Kirkland quietly shuffled in, snapping the door shut behind him.

"Arthur," he gestured to the chair across from him, "I didn't expect to see you back just yet. Please, sit," he folded his hands across his lap so Arthur would not see them shaking.

"Hello, sir," Arthur sagged into the seat like he had been standing for the last several hours. The man looked exhausted; he allowed a minute of silence to pass, passively observing as Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose between his fingers, collecting his thoughts.

"Are you ready to come back to work?" he prompted, impatient for the Brit to get the conversation rolling.

"Yes, sir, but," he hesitated, lowering his hand from his face and looking in Roderich's direction, but unseeing. "I do not feel my opinions are quite as Brash as they once were."

"Ah," Roderich sighed. He feared as much.

"However, I do have a proposition for my return, if you would think it could be an appropriate edition to an editorial under your umbrella." Roderich only quirked a brow and tilted his head, welcoming Arthur to continue. "I do write short fiction from time to time and I had a thought about running a longer story in short pieces."

"A serial?"

"Well, yes, I suppose that's what that would be. I had an idea for a story I think our readership might enjoy." Roderich hummed in thought. "I would also like to write as a freelance author for other articles. Ludwig is doing just fine with Brash Opinions, I would feel like I would be misplacing him now; besides, I've quite enjoyed working from home the last few months."

"I'm sure," he drummed his fingers on his lap and regarded Arthur with a critical eye. "Do you have a script of this serial you want to run in one of my magazines, or a sample chapter?" Arthur nodded and reached for the satchel strung across his chest. He fiddled with it before producing a manila folder and passing it to Roderich over the desk. Roderich was relieved that his hands held steady as he reached for it and flipped it open.

He scanned the first page, then flipped through the rest, before looking back to Arthur with an eyebrow raised.

"Mermen, Arthur?"

"Ah," Arthur cleared his throat, "it was a silly idea I had from one of my nephews. They liked when I made up bedtime stories for them and they had recently watched Little Mermaid. They asked for different stories about mermaids and mermen for weeks. It was hard not to latch on to one of those see where it went..." he trailed off, his face flushing with obvious embarrassment. "Perhaps it was a silly idea-"

"No," Roderich held up one of his hands and gazed back down to the scrawled notes and chunks of prose in the folder in front of him. "It's a clever idea, I like it. Have the first piece on my desk by next Friday. I will run it in one of my magazines as a test and see how it is received. We can go from there."

"Thank you, sir!" Arthur stood, his face holding an expression of surprise, like he had not suspected Roderich to agree to his silly, romantic idea of fish-people living in the English Channel.

"If this goes well for you," he added slowly, an afterthought, "we may be able to turn something like that into a book." Arthur's eyes brightened at the prospect.

"I will do my best, sir."

"I expect nothing less. I'll see you next Friday."