a/n: #4 is set in Black Rose Authoress' Pleasantville verse, although you don't need to read her stories to understand it!
1.
Matt has been sitting on the novelty-patterned fabric of the bus seat for about three hours when the white-haired stranger drops down next to him. He's mildly annoyed to be giving up his second seat, but conceals it with a polite smile.
"Where you headed?" asks the stranger. His eyes are distractingly red.
"Calgary," Matt replies. "Visiting family. You?"
The scenery rattles by out the window, plains golden with the coming harvest.
"The doctors gave me six months to live," the stranger tells him frankly. "So I'm going to take this bus into the middle of nowhere and then walk out into the wilderness and see as much as I can before it takes me."
"I still sleep with a teddy bear," Matt says, and it's hardly relevant but it seems like the right thing to say. "But I can never remember his name."
The stranger laughs, and Matt learns that his name is Gilbert, and he loves animals and his little brother and writing and that inside his rugged-looking backpack there's food for a month and a picture of the fallen Berlin Wall. And Matt talks about his younger brother too, and tells him the best way to cook bacon and his favorite bars and all the oddities of his mom's Quebecois family and his dad's Calgarian one.
Gilbert gets off the bus with a smile in his eyes and a cheery wave for Matt, and all the way to Calgary he's choking back inexplicable tears.
2.
Gilbert snickers. "Alfred still won't leave you alone, huh?"
The riding instructor Arthur, who has opened the door to the staff lounge in a mighty huff, groans. "He doesn't seem to understand that CITs are still campers and that is illegal." His British accent, as always, is more pronounced when he's angry.
"Good luck with that," Gilbert cheerfully tells him from his position sprawled on one of the worn couches, fingers deftly untangling a rat's nest of friendship bracelet string. Gilbert runs arts and crafts, and is eternally grateful that his assigned CIT is Alfred's twin Matthew, a quiet and polite boy who's good with the younger kids and accepted by the older ones and handy with a pair of scissors. "Can't say I envy you."
Arthur peels off his muddy boots and discards them by the door before stepping inside. "That's just the problem, though. He's otherwise great. We work well together, the campers adore him, he's better with the horses than I am, he knows how to ride Western…"
Gilbert cackles. "Seems like he's looking to ride some English this summer." Arthur groans again and flicks a bit of manure at him, which he dodges.
"What about yours, then?" Arthur asks. "Getting any unwanted amorous solicitations while you're organizing pom-poms?"
"Pff. Nah. For twins, they're polar opposites."
A comfortable silence falls as Gilbert works at a particularly stubborn knot and Arthur looks through the DVDs next to the lounge's ancient TV.
The thing about Matt is that he's not Alfred - he's soft-spoken, he's tactful, he's observant. And, presumably, he's much more cognizant of the (rightfully) heavy laws and regulations protecting children from sexual predators. But Gilbert isn't clueless, and he can feel Matt's eyes on him when they shouldn't be, he can hear the differences in Matt's tone when he's talking to Gilbert, he recognizes what it means every time Matthew finds another question for him that he knows Matt knows the answer to...
There's nothing Gilbert can really do about it besides soundly rejecting any future advances and avoiding taking off his shirt off around his protege. Next summer, Matt will be a counselor too, and then maybe Gilbert can start thinking about it.
He finally finishes extricating the red string from the rest, and holds it up to admire his work.
3.
The tour group consists of a peppy guide in a sorority shirt, a pair of pre-sorority twins with a harassed-looking mom in tow, a thin-lipped dad with a slouching son in tow, several kids who look straight out of prep school and their respective hovering parents, Matt, and one other boy, who doesn't quite seem to belong. He's alone, he looks significantly older than the group of high schoolers, and he's albino - white hair, red eyes, skin pale as death. They do token introductions and he says his name is Gilbert and he's hoping to major in writing.
Theres's something about Gilbert's voice and Matt's skinny jeans and Gilbert's v-neck and Matt's Tyler Oakley glasses that sparks the flare of a mutual understanding between the two, so the two lone prospies buddy up and chat quietly at the back of the group as they set off across the quad.
Matt says that this is the sixth college he's visited this week and they all look exactly the same. "Touring alone, then?" Gilbert asks, tactfully bringing up the question of where Matt's parents are.
Matt shrugs awkwardly. "I have a twin brother, and he's, uh… Well, he's visiting colleges this week too, it's our spring break. But he's visiting all the big football schools and talking to coaches and such, all very grand...and on the other hand, they figure I can take care of myself better than he can…"
The implication is clear, and Gilbert nods in understanding. "I got one of those too," he says. "A perfect brother, I mean. Five years younger than me. All-American something or another, starting college this year, set on an engineering degree, handsome, thoughtful, heterosexual. Dead determined to pay for his own college education, so here I am."
"You raised him?"
"Our parents died," Gilbert says, matter-of-factly. "And I wasn't letting some asshole uncle take my little brother. But he doesn't need me anymore now." Matt feels like he should protest, but he really doesn't have anything to say, and Gilbert is still talking anyway. "You think you're gonna go here?"
Matt glances around the quad that they're walking past. "It's a pretty school, I suppose." He guiltily acknowledges to himself that he hasn't heard much of what the tour guide is saying.
"Yeah, I could learn to like it here," Gilbert says, but he's looking at Matt as he speaks.
They pass by a tiny cafe set into the side of one of the campus centers, and Gilbert raises an eyebrow at Matt and jerks his head towards it. With a nod, Matthew slips away from the back of the group and follows Gilbert into the little room.
4.
Pleasantville had a lower percentage of homophobes than the average small town, but they were still definitely present, and though Mattie and Gillian's own circle of friends was fully accepting, the two had often talked together about how much they longed for a place where they could feel normal. Where, like their straight friends did every day, queer kids could mingle secure in the knowledge that everyone else was like them. And so, about a month into their relationship, Mattie and Gill had hopped a rickety train into the city to try out a lesbian club Gillian had found online.
Mattie, who was anxious about finding their way in the city, had made sure they left with an hour to spare. Being that the club turned out to be only a few blocks from the train station, they'd arrived there in time to get near the front of the line. Once the doors opened, the She-Hulk of a bouncer drew the black X's on their hands to indicate that they were underage and they hurried into a room seething with people. As Gillian went to leave their bags at the check, Mattie faded into the crowd, letting music and movement wash over her skin and heighten her senses. Eyes skipped over her, people talked through her. She felt ethereal and slightly atmosphere-drunk, like some invisible spirit hovering low over the undulating crowd.
People tended to forget about Mattea Williams. She was used to that.
Mattie caught sight of white hair gleaming under the blacklight, and as her girlfriend wove her way through the crowd, eyes everywhere followed her movement.
Nobody could ever forget about Gillian. She was a hurricane in human form. She was attractive, but more than that, she was striking, with her snow-white hair and piercing red eyes and sharklike grin and the whipcord muscle beneath her skin. She wore bright red or deep blue or starkly-contrasting black and white. When she walked in, you noticed her, you remembered her. She was magnetic, and Mattie was drawn to her fiercely.
Gillian emerged from the mass of bodies in front of her, shoulders and stomach bared by her crop top, teeth bared in a confident smile. "Ready to dance?" she asked, and Mattie nodded, still dazed by the atmosphere and by Gillian. She was brought down to earth again when Gillian took her hand and squeezed it, betraying her nerves. Automatically, Mattie squeezed back, and rubbed soothing circles into Gillian's hand with her thumb, feeling her girlfriend's crackling nervous energy subside slightly under the touch as they slipped into the crowd.
They were among the youngest-looking ones there, but the older women silently understood and made space for the couple in their midst. After all, Mattie and Gillian were treading paths that those around them had been forging for generations. All queer kids ended up in the city eventually, hungry for acceptance and the marvelous knowledge that they were not alone.
Caught in the whirlwind that was Gillian Beilschmidt, Mattie had never felt less alone in her life.
5.
"That Ravenclaw keeper sure is a cutie," Gilbert says to the general Gryffindor locker room as he steps out of the shower. The Gryffindor captain, a formidable Beater named Elizabeta, makes the vocal equivalent of rolling her eyes.
Mathias, a massive Dane who's their own Keeper, whines from the bench where he's unlacing his boots, "You never call me a cutie."
"I'm no liar," Gilbert tosses back with a shark-toothed grin, drying his hair with his red and gold towel. "There are more and better Matts in this school to catch my eye than your sorry ass."
"The only thing that should be catching your eye is the Snitch," scolds Elizabeta, "not some big-eyed Keeper who nearly just won Ravenclaw this game."
"Yeah, yeah," Gilbert agrees, easily ignoring her further complaints.
He wasn't usually one for romance. But there was something about that delicate face, grimy with sweat and dirt and twisted in a scream of rage…
Perhaps some of his neglected relatives in Ravenclaw could use a call.
6.
"Thanks for doing this, by the way," Gilbert mutters.
"No problemo," Matthew assures him under his breath, with a note of glee in his voice as he catches a glare from some ruddy-faced uncle with an unfortunate beard and a beer in his hand. He wraps his hand tighter around Gilbert's, and gently tugs him closer so that their shoulders are brushing as they walk.
Gilbert and Matthew are the only (openly, at least) gay kids in town. But Gilbert is the only gay kid in town with a huge extended family of homophobes, and Matthew is the only gay kid in town who agreed to accompany his friend to a reunion of aforementioned homophobes to piss them off. They're really playing it up, too - Matt has pulled out his skinniest skinny jeans, ballet flats, and a snug pink v-neck, and Gilbert is putting the nasal tone into his voice and the flamboyant flippancy into his gestures that he knows will rub his loved ones exactly the wrong way.
"You weren't joking about them," Matthew says. "That lady over there has a Confederate flag bikini on under her tank top."
Gilbert glances over at some aunt of his, and winces. "Her neck's redder than a-"
"Oh, honey, I forgot my dildos," Matt suddenly interrupts in a loud falsetto, knitting his brows and planting a hand on his cocked hip.
Gilbert's momentarily confused until he notices his grandfather bearing down on him. It's probably wasted because his grandfather doesn't know what a dildo is anyway, but he immediately plays along, putting one hand to his mouth in a shocked gesture. "Oh my god, sweetie, really?Unbelievable."
The grandfather veers away, successfully averted.
Of course, when they're not somewhere full of bigots, Gilbert and Matthew wear t-shirts and jeans and like playing video games and getting Moe's like any other seventeen-year-old high school boys. For now, they're chatting happily with grotesquely exaggerated gestures and tone, just barely out of earshot of the wary relatives. Their conversation is interrupted when one wide-eyed twelve-year-old, who Gilbert assumes is his cousin or something, is sidling up to them. "You two are gay?" she asks, half-whispering the last word.
Matt grins at her. "In the flesh. And inside his flesh, too," he adds, probably tastelessly, jerking a thumb at Gilbert.
"Are you...dating, then?" she says, looking more scandalized by the minute.
"Absolutely," Gilbert assures her, and he and Matthew hide their snickers.
Them? Dating? As if.
7.
Canada likes to make Bagel Bites during thunderstorms, which Prussia says is dumb because if the power goes out while you're still microwaving you have cold Bagel Bites and what's the point of that. Matthew likes Bagel Bites and TV dinners and Tater Tots and chicken nuggets, and Gilbert likes Matthew, but not enough to eat cold Bagel Bites.
Today, the power goes out right about when the Bagel Bites reach lukewarm. Matt and Gilbert sit cross-legged on the wraparound porch and try to toast them over Gilbert's lighter, and then Matt's propane-fueled camp stove, with only moderate success. They pile the Bagel Bites onto a paper plate anyway and sit on the porch swing, Matt pushing it with his feet and Gilbert dragging his soles against the wood to slow it down, as the thunder cracks overhead and sheet lightning flashes across the sky. Gilbert takes a Bagel Bite cautiously, and begins to nibble.
Matt's house is big, but it's big because the rooms are big - high ceilings, wide walls, space for a twelve-person dining table and an industrial kitchen and a full-sized study/library. There are worn sofas and beanbag chairs in clumps of three or four and a foosball table with less than half its original player pieces, and the kitchen is never completely clean of dishes in haphazard piles (mostly courtesy of Gilbert). Matt isn't exactly a social butterfly, but there are always ten kinds of beverages in the fridge that Gilbert knows Matt only keeps for his friends, beds made for anyone who needs one, cabinets open and snacks available at any hour of the day.
Gilbert's house - Ludwig's house, he supposes - is big because it has lots of small rooms, labyrinths of guest bedrooms that are never used and kitchenettes that nobody cooks in and cramped studies that still have plastic on the furniture. The basement is a bit better, but it's a basement and Gilbert is a creature of the open air. Ludwig's house cloys around him and he paces its encroaching halls like a restless unshowered wraith until Ludwig barks at him to do something or get out. And then he goes to Matt's house, where everything is open and airy and light and there's a Canadian with a smile who lets him use the shower and calls bad jokes through the bathroom door while Gilbert's stealing his shampoo and somewhere in there Matt put in a second towel rack and that meant all of the world to Gilbert Beilschmidt.
Because in all honesty, Prussia doesn't really know why he's still alive. If he shouldn't have faded after World War II, he certainly should've in 1989. He'd always known he would spend his last days in battle, the gritty, bloody fight he'd been waging since the hazy beginnings of his memory. And, somehow, inexplicably, he didn't, even now that his people are absorbed wholly into his brother whose very house is packed with crushing reminders of the mighty nation he once was, of the absolute nothing, nothing, nothing he's become.
Matt never asks about that. Matt asks about his favorite foods, and takes him hiking and points out six different kinds of maple trees. Matt shows him beavers swimming at dusk and a plant whose branches smell like root beer and how to play red-light-green-light with a grazing moose. But Matt knows, because Gilbert tells him during whatever one might call the bachelors' equivalent of a slumber party. He doesn't cry - he's never wept about his fate, only ever stared numbly at the ceiling - but Matt understands and lets Gil rest his head on his shoulder and give one shuddering, silent sob. And then they make grilled cheese in their pajamas and go outside and make up new constellations. ("That one looks like a dick", Matt observes gravely, and Gilbert sniggers.)
This is not battle. This is nothing Gilbert has ever experienced. But right now, Gilbert is alive, whether he likes it or not. And he misses his past fiercely, and he doesn't particularly like his recent present. But Matthew Williams - Matt, Mattie, Birdie - is showing him some possibilities for a future.
So he eats the Bagel Bites.