My December, Leave Out All The Rest, In Pieces, Just A Dream, The Hanging Tree, Will You Be There.

I'm a bad author but this chapter was easy to get done and Recovery's was not. I have 5/8 scenes finished on that though.

The Gay Brother

Reputations and Regrets

They couldn't really remember what had been in there.

Plates? Bowls?

It must have been something fragile.

Something sharp.

It wasn't a long drive from the river to The Pinwheel, not compared to, say, Feliciano's daily commute from his neighbourhood downtown to the museum.

And just like that morning drive and transit adventure, it went a lot faster if he ignored the speed limit.

"You aren't driving yet?" He asked his passenger, because he refused to finish the drive in silence and couldn't stand the way his little brother was digging his nails into the seat cushion next to him.

"No."

"You should." He changed gears and pressed down a little further on the gas pedal, feeling the engine respond properly as he shifted his weight on the clutch and let the car continue forward. Feliciano knew the next hill and rode down it quickly, toes hovering over the brake without actually touching it. "Get Lovino to show you."

"No thanks." Carlino's discomfort with the speed and handling of the car didn't stop the hiss in his words, and Feliciano glanced at him briefly before putting his attention back on the road and the flashing sunlight.

"You two see each other every day, don't you?" They didn't know how good they had it. "It's starting to sound like you don't talk."

"About work? Of course we do." The town was hurrying by as the road searched for the highway, winding around fields and out-buildings like the creeks that scurried down to the river they were leaving behind. "But you're the one he talks family with."

"He told me you finished school and that grandpa's heart has been giving him trouble, that's about all I know." Feliciano nearly dropped the wedding bomb but thought better of it. Carlino had looked wounded enough that day when Feliciano had asked when their brother had gotten married, he didn't want to bring it up again.

"Then what else do you talk about on your visits?" Again he heard that little hiss, and he ended up tapping the brakes trying to control his speed through several bends in the lane.

"What visits?" Feliciano put the question to him as soon as the road evened out again, giving him a hard look for as long as he could hold it before having to keep his attention on where they were going. Carlino didn't meet his stare, he was just sitting there with his arms folded tight over his chest and one foot up on the dashboard. "Carlino I haven't seen him since October, what visits?"

Neither of them had really calmed down yet, not completely, and when Feliciano chanced another look his brother's eyes were going red around the rims again, his whole face collapsing under his sun-bleached hair as he tried not to shed more tears.

"I'm not telling you," his brother grunted, "until you tell me what the hell is going on." Feliciano nearly slammed the brake, or the accelerator- whichever one his foot was resting over. He almost did it but a crash would not make things go any better and he just put his attention back on the road.

"Fair enough." But just because he said it didn't mean he wasn't getting fed up with walking around and avoiding issues.

When the refurbished cantina appeared through the light with its dry waterwheel and hedged garden, both of them felt better. Carlino sat up properly and Feliciano made the accelerator needle dance before finally hitting the brakes and bringing the car to a full, fast stop on the side of the road. He barely even remembered to pull the keys out of the ignition before getting out, leaving the doors unlocked because it wouldn't make much difference to a convertible.

The road was a little higher than the restaurant, and with Feliciano leading he quickly took the several half-buried stone steps down and bypassed the front door completely. There was a never-locked gate that led into the vegetable garden behind the lemon tree, and that just squealed once as he pulled it open and stormed inside.

The Pinwheel was already open, or maybe they'd only just started service, but Feliciano didn't care. He pushed his way into the kitchen from that open door and saw the line-cook and chef from yesterday. Without asking if they knew where their boss was he went straight out through the swinging door into the front of house.

The restaurant was open but she was quiet and nearly empty. He actually heard the chef in the kitchen try to get Carlino's attention by calling his name, but his brother was still right behind him as Feliciano scanned the red tile and white stucco'd interior of the restaurant looking for the person he wanted.

Vargas men were not known for being tall, but they were loud and usually running around doing something. It wasn't hard with only three tables holding guests to find the man in charge for the day. Mario Vargas had a solid frame under a fine black sports-coat, his dark, tousled hair going thin right on top and blushed with the red highlights that Feliciano and Carlino had from their mother. He was shorter than Feliciano and for some reason that surprised him, only a few inches making a sharp impact as he marched across the tiled floor and pools of yellow sunlight.

His uncle's back was turned on him and he was speaking to a set of patrons seated at one of their tables by a window looking out into the garden. The white table cloth bounced the light back up on clear water and wine glasses, silver cutlery and white china plates, and for one brief moment Feliciano wondered how much noise it would cause if he just shoved the other man into the display.

Somehow he resisted, and the hand he reached out with only touched his uncle on the shoulder, interrupting a verbose laugh and poorly handled English words. His other hand was a fist and if he brought it up from his side he knew he'd use it. Short jab, fast, he'd keep his wrist straight and plow his knuckles right into the man's mouth.

It was better that Carlino quickly grabbed his elbow, like he could feel how angry Feliciano was and knew he'd do something terrible if his temper ran wild.

"Uncle." Oh, that was not the name he wanted to use right now.

"Ah-" But heavy grey eyes only flashed up at him for a moment before they suddenly dropped back down to the guests Feliciano hadn't even looked at. He barely saw his uncle's straight nose or the way his lips were going thin like his hair, he just went back to exactly what he'd been doing while reaching one arm out and giving Feliciano a heavy smack on the back. Again, he tried speaking English: "And this! This! My nephew!"

The language was fast and broken, and as much as his jaw was already hurting from locking his teeth together, Feliciano actually looked at the table and realized he was only hearing more half-English: "I see!", "Yes!", "Good!", and so on. He was staring at a table with a young blond couple dressed in tourist white and clearly as entertained by the miming game as they were with the fact that they were vacationing in Italy.

"Deutch?" What?

"You speak German?" Oh shit- the strange sounds needed a moment to click before he felt his brain reset to the foreign language, a habit that served him well when in Germany, but right now-

"Ja- no!" Not right now!

"Yes," Mario pressed, his uncle still holding that arm around him despite how much Feliciano wanted to throw it off. Carlino's touch had faded and he was left staring at the man trying to make him play translator. "You take their orders quickly and then we'll say hello in the back, it's good to see you home again."

Liar.

His uncle reached around to pat his shoulder like he was considering a proper hug, then started to slip away between Feliciano and the table, flashing a smile as he went until Feliciano caught his arm and leaned down to hiss by his ear:

"I need to speak with you right now, first." And the look he got back was something straight out of his childhood, a fast, judging stare with both dark eyebrows quickly rising over his flat brow, pushing wrinkles up against his vanishing hairline. The effect was sudden and he didn't know how it worked, but it put a muzzle on his rage without actually calming it.

"Finish with our guests first." No-nonsense and business driven, that was Uncle Mario. It wasn't even necessarily about the bottom line either, but the reputation: the pride that went into running a place like this. "Then come meet me in the back office."

Something in that low voice sounded like a question, but it wasn't a code. There was no 'yes I know what this is' recognition, no sudden realization that chilled or roused the other man's temper. It was confusion and that, maybe, was what calmed Feliciano just enough to let go of his arm and let his uncle quickly march off towards the kitchen. When he called Carlino to come after him Feliciano's brother looked torn, glancing first at him and then at the guests still sitting patiently at their table. But Carlino just swallowed hard and nodded his head without a word towards the table, choking on air for a moment before he fled the same way their uncle had gone.

"So you..." German was a strange, unfamiliar sound in his ears as he covered his face with his hands for a moment, rubbing at the frustration and stress as he told himself to smile like a fool and let his thoughts and mouth switch over to the other language. "What can you recommend? My wife and I wanted to try something new..."

Feliciano put on his best paper smile and did not tell Lovino's guests to go fuck themselves.

"Lutz."

Not again.

"Lutz."

"What?" Ludwig looked up from his desk in the tiny portable that housed his on-site office. Suffice it to say he wasn't exactly impressed with Gilbert standing there wearing a visitor's pass and a borrowed hard-hat, but the younger brother swallowed his stress and sat up in his chair, annoyed and not about to fight it.

"It's Friday."

"Yes, Gilbert, I know." Meaning it had been four days since Feliciano had walked out on him, Ludwig didn't need the reminder.

"It's Friday and you're going out tonight." No he was not. "Yes you are and I'm paying."

Ludwig stopped what he was doing with his laptop and slid his reading glasses off with a huff, looking up at his older brother where Gilbert was still leaning casually in the open doorway, a black hoodie on and his hands lost in the kangaroo pouch stitched on the front. His jeans were ratty looking around the ankles and he had one foot hooked over the other. He looked a little bit like an over-grown teenager standing there, but Ludwig was at least willing to hear him out.

"Paying for what?"

"Dinner and drinks." There was food and beer back at the house. "Yeah well I can't cook, you won't, and don't even lie and say you've had lunch today because this is your lunch break and you're still working."

"I have a lot of business to catch up on." He lied, not even backing down when Gilbert gave him a criticising look and stepped properly into the portable, knocking the door with one ankle before pushing it shut. With the distant hum of machinery and steady work locked out, he watched his brother stand there for a few more moments with that blue beaten helmet over his pale hair, and a sorry kind of expression on his thin face. "What?"

"He'll be back by Tuesday."

"He left until Tuesday." Ludwig snapped the words back before he meant to, frustrated with himself as he scooted his chair closer to his desk and started reaching for the blue-prints and technical drafts in front of him. He didn't know what he circled with the pencil he found behind his ear, but he made sure he didn't mark the pages in ink. Anything to look busy.

"Ludwig." And then he gave up the charade, because he knew what it meant when Gilbert switched from Lutz to Ludwig. He hadn't needed a mother to teach him the weight of full names. "You can't play the pissy-silent-game with a guy who's a hundred miles away chilling out in Southern Italy. Are you gonna stay this pissed off when he comes home?" Hmph.

"You mean if he-"

"Ludwig." He hadn't needed a father to teach him either. "Cut it out. You seriously need to just blow off some steam and it's Friday fucking night." Gilbert was really pushing this, and although he'd hinted a couple of times that they should go out for drinks while Feliciano was away, he was being a lot more forceful about it this time.

Ludwig looked at his brother again and held out one hand. The way Gilbert's face seemed to shrivel and the older brother dropped his eyes said the rest.

"You didn't come here in the middle of the day to lecture me," because Ludwig and Gilbert had agreed a long time ago that on days like this, the older brother could come to him in the shower if he had to. "Hand it over."

"... 'm short fifty." Ludwig didn't care, he just watched the tables twist and turn between them until Gilbert stepped forward like a guilty child and pulled a rumpled white envelope out of his sweater pocket. Ludwig took the soft paper and quickly opened it, finding the small pay-stub inserted by Gilbert's sometimes-boss down at the warehouse where he found irregular work moving boxes and shuffling inventory. He checked the hours and the total, multiplying in his head before reaching in and pulling out the rainbow of Euro notes resting inside.

He started counting and yes, Gilbert was short by fifty.

"I'll take this to the bank tomorrow and put it in the account." The account that was really one of Ludwig's so that Gilbert himself couldn't get at it. He paid taxes in his name, of course: Ludwig filed them for him whether he made one thousand or ten in a year. It wasn't something they talked about any more than they had to: Feliciano never asked how Ludwig paid his half of the expenses and still had money to take them both out to dinner, or purchase a new suit, or god-forbid take his car in for repairs after what Lovino had done to it.

"Take two hundred out for tonight and deposit the rest today." When Gilbert worked, which wasn't steady but could have been enough for him to live on his own if he tried, the money came to Ludwig and went straight into that restricted account. It collected interest, it was added to by the pension given to him by the military every month for his share of the rent and Feliciano's expensive taste in wine. It was protected by a mountain of paperwork that both brothers had signed and initialed until their hands wore out, certified by lawyers and watched over by an accountant.

"What did you lose the fifty on?" With all of those precautions it hadn't made much sense to ask if that hidden money from earlier in the week had been Gilbert's, but Ludwig had been scared. If Gilbert couldn't be counted on to bring his entire paycheque so it could be deposited and kept safe from temptation, then how would Ludwig have handled that?

A stupid habit picked up in the army.

A habit that became a compulsion after poker-buddies and dice-throwers were gunned down on a moonlit desert road.

"I'll tell you if you go drinking with me." Gilbert wasn't quite as good at smiling through stress as Feliciano was, but he sure did try it as he stood there on the other side of the desk. It was better for him to suggest a trade than a bet. "Straight bar, lots of chicks: no temptation on your end."

"...We eat out where I want first." Ludwig looked down at the bundle of money in his hands again, wondering if it might not have been a better idea to split the cost instead of letting Gilbert treat him.

"And I'll carry you on my back when you're too piss-drunk to walk."

Ludwig didn't mean to laugh at the stupid joke, and he didn't really laugh: he just grinned a little bit and felt himself chuckle. But he also counted out a hundred euros again from the bundle in his hands and put the rest of the bills back in the creased white envelope in front of him, quickly marking the new total on the outside so he'd know when he went to the bank how much was inside. They'd split the night fifty-fifty.

It wasn't as if his partner hadn't spent twice as much just getting to Italy...

Work had that awful way of distracting and overwhelming someone until they didn't know which direction they were supposed to be running in.

Working with people, if you were a social kind of person the way Feliciano knew he was, just increased those effects. On a normal day back in Berlin he would chatter mindlessly to himself or anyone unfortunate enough to stand too close to him after too long kept silent and focused on his work. He'd grown up around people, he needed people.

Feliciano was worse than the dogs: he needed Ludwig to take him out or let him just run wild with friends for a night out, or he would legitimately start to lose his mind. He'd picked up German faster than the handful of other foreign students in his exchange program because he couldn't stand not being able to talk and communicate, even if it was about the simplest things like how everyone liked their coffee made up in the morning.

But it wasn't working like that today. It could have, and maybe it even should have, but Feliciano wouldn't let it.

He couldn't walk away from tourists because his family's business relied just as much on good food as it did on good service. Tourists wanted to be placed on a pedestal and be pampered and they paid good money for that kind of treatment. So when they didn't get it they made sure anyone with ears knew just how disappointed and upset they were about that time they had lunch at that little Italian cantina with the waterwheel outside Rieti.

He would not sink his brother because he was furious with their uncle, he absolutely refused to do it. But in the same breath he forbade himself from taking any longer than was strictly necessary with anyone who tried getting his attention.

He went from the first table to being drawn over to the second one before he could properly set a course for the kitchen. After that he had one of Lovino's waitresses pinning a name-tag to his jacket and putting a menu in his hand with the day's specials and a chart showing which table had what number. He was called back to the first table by a problem with an entrée and an obnoxious request that he hold the happy couple's camera and take a picture of them, chaffing when the gentleman tried striking up a conversation about where in Germany Feliciano had picked up the language.

"Berlin." He did not say he'd been a student there, he did not say he still lived there, he did not offer anything at all that would make the conversation last. He just smiled through his clenched teeth and made himself sound happy. "It's a lovely city, horrible weather, lots of dogs."

Escape!

His smile was gone by the time he was half-way to the kitchen door, and that was probably what warned away the same waitress who had a question about something- she actually stepped back to stay out of his path. If he'd been a little more in control he might have felt bad for letting everything inside work its way completely to the outside, but he just wasn't so he just didn't.

Carlino wasn't in the kitchen and the staff were already getting comfortably into their groove, so Feliciano kept going past them and ducked by the closet where the broom and dustpan he'd used yesterday had been put away. The only thing beyond the closet was a close, dim hallway only a few paces long that ended in the staff washroom and the cramped little shoebox three generations of the Vargas family had called their office.

"What the hell is wrong with this family!?" He heard Carlino's voice break the rhythm of the restaurant as he placed one hand on the door, pausing before taking another breath and quickly twisting the knob to let himself in.

"Carlo-"

"First I have to put up with grandpa's bullshit and Lovino's stupid lies," the first thing Feliciano saw was the ugly white plaster that made the room feel absolutely claustrophobic, hedged with cardboard boxes and stacks of white paper. "And now both you and him in one day tell me the exact same fucking thing!" The next thing he saw was the way Carlino was standing up and bellowing at the man sitting stunned behind the desk. Their uncles' hands were caught half-way between gestures and just hung there, listening to his nephew completely lose his temper until Feliciano stepped in to put a stop to it.

"Enough-" Carlino swung an arm out at him, a pesky swipe that Feliciano slapped down with one hand before taking firm, fast hold of his brother's wrist. "Stop that! If you want to yell at someone then go yell at your staff!"

The hurt and disbelieving look Carlino hit him with did more damage than the weak flail a moment before. Feliciano couldn't honestly tell if he was pulling the youngest-sibling card or if this much drama really was taxing him to the brink.

"You're sending me out of the room for this?" This meeting, this showdown, this whatever it would be?

"Yes," because he was acting like a child, and frankly Feliciano didn't think he could handle it. "Now go wash your face." He had tears and sweat all over his flushed skin, and when he looked at their uncle as if Mario would say something, Feliciano's word stood. He had to take his hurt feelings and go, and the older brother honestly didn't know how or when he would make everything up to him.

Carlino left quickly, and the door almost cracked the frame when the fragile wood collided with the wall. It left Feliciano and his uncle standing under the flickering florescent lamp in the stale white room filled with order forms and receipt tickets, and Mario was quick to fill the air before it became silent.

"I see Lovino wasn't exaggerating when he told me things were complicated." Feliciano was still watching the door, he was still staring right at it because he didn't know what he was supposed to be feeling right now. He hated being angry, he hated being like this. "I'm sorry that this is the first thing we have to talk about, Feliciano. I was hoping we could open a bottle of wine and catch up out front in the light."

"Are you saying we can't?" He had no concrete reason for why he asked that question, Feliciano just knew he didn't trust himself to look at the man who was now standing behind the desk. For them this had always been Uncle Mario's desk in Uncle Mario's office. This was the small room you only entered if you were in trouble too serious for Mama to handle, or if someone thought you were finally old and responsible enough to run in and grab extra business cards or a stapler.

"I'm saying Carlino screamed enough at me just now to explain why you're so upset." Mm, he was glad it was that obvious, although it was frustrating to feel a kind of rage that actually bellied that midnight car ride half a week ago. "Feliciano look at me."

He had to think about that, but maybe he didn't think about it enough before he answered:

"You were hoping to share a bottle of wine with the man you accused of molesting your nephew?" There, he looked at him, was Mario happy now? He looked at him despite the sore pain that caught him under the jaw, pinching below his mouth so his tongue hurt just trying to swallow. His lungs felt heavy and he knew his eyes were going red, but damn it Feliciano looked and he forced the man in front of him to break eye-contact first.

Mario was a heavy older man and he was standing behind his desk with one hand in his pocket, the other resting on the old wood standing between them. He broke eye-contact to stare at the stains and grooves, running his fingers over them as he shook his head quickly, muttering softly under his breath and- for the first time Feliciano could think of, looking guilty.

"No... No you would never..."

"That's what you said."

"I know." He wasn't even going to lie and say he didn't remember, or that he had no idea what Feliciano was talking about. He just came out-right and said it... "I did say it, and I-"

"You believed it."

"No." Liar. "Liar? Me?" He sensed both the anger and the warning but god-damn it Feliciano was not backing down now, and he didn't care how high up his uncle's balding head his eyebrows went. "You of all people want to toss out accusations? You, who doesn't have a leg to stand on in this town anymore and your brother has to harbour you like a criminal in my restaurant?"

"He's harbouring me because you went around spreading sick lies!" Feliciano snapped back, because he was not going to be talked down to by a man who who'd already disowned him. "You! You just want me in jail! You went out of your way to call me back in October and try to guilt me into coming back home, and now that I'm here I can't figure out why you even bothered!"

"Of course I wanted you home!" Oh god, they were shouting. It only struck him when he noticed the way his uncle's face was already flaring up red and he could feel his own skin burning. "I was the idiot who sent you to Berlin in the first place, and look what happened to you!"

"Me? What happened to me?" Don't even- Feliciano brought both hands up and started counting points on his fingers: "I have a job, I have a career, I have a house and two cars: I live in a country that knows how to spend its fucking money!"

"Money- yes!" He boomed, slamming one fist on the desk keeping them apart as they gestured and screamed. "Because who do you think paid for that education that got you that car and that house? But then instead of coming home like you were supposed to you stayed over there and you became-" He wouldn't dare. "-one of those-" Say it. "-what you are!"

"Yes, what I am: which is educated and successful and doesn't go home every night reeking of onions and garlic!"

"Which is exactly what I wanted for you!" The scream startled them both, because Feliciano choked on a retort he didn't have and before his uncle could follow it up with something, the old man had tears on his face. They were sudden and foreign, hot wet tracks that the nephew had never seen before and the uncle wasn't supposed to shed, and as he took a breath to control himself Mario had both hands up in fists over his forehead. He raised his hands the same way Feliciano's grandmother had the day before: up like he was too overwhelmed by the topic and furious with the argument to continue. He didn't hide behind his hands, he just collapsed under them. "Marguarite and I... that's what we wanted... that's what she wanted..."

No. No don't bring her into this... It wasn't fair for him to do something like that because it felt like a cold blast to Feliciano's chest, something that froze the hot air in his body and made his ribs contract until he thought they would crunch together. His blood stopped running and his eyes overwhelmed themselves with tears. He wanted to say something, but his uncle was still going in a much quieter, more forlorn voice behind the desk:

"The week before, or not even..." He was whispering and Feliciano couldn't remember such a soft sound coming from him that wasn't meant to sooth one of them in childhood. "I remember her saying how if you got a job in Germany, if it paid better then you should stay there... I remember saying yes..."

"And then after her funeral you said I-"

"Feliciano I was angry..." That wasn't an excuse, he wouldn't let that be his excuse and he just wished he could have felt enough of his body in that moment to say as much. "She was there and then she was gone, and her child had to be there in that wreck with her, and then everything came out of you in that explosion..."

"It wasn't supposed to happen like that." Feliciano found himself leaning heavily on the back of the chair next to him, the one he hadn't seen and didn't want to sit down on. He'd stood for this much of it and Feliciano was determined to remain upright.

"I know that now. I didn't then, but I was angry." Asking him to look up again right now was too much though. He didn't know how he was supposed to carry on for the rest of the day and into the night because he just felt so worn out and tired, exhausted from so many tears he could feel still trickling down his face along the old crusty lines from his fight with Carlino... "Things were different when I was your age. There was no internet to look these things up, there were no pamphlets on the street you could just grab and read on the train. People like you were just GRID and cradle-robbers: it was a shock and I was angry, and I don't know how to tell you I'm sorry and have it make a difference, Feliciano, I just don't."

It wasn't fair for him to say that and for Feliciano to believe him. It wasn't fair for this person, one of two who'd stepped into his life to fill the role a booming voice and broken plates had left vacant, to stand there and cry and sound so sorry when he was supposed to be the one who only talked business and money. Even what little Feliciano remembered of his mother's funeral told him that watching this uncle cry was just wrong, and that was what killed his resolve to stick his chin in the air and march out proud and offended and unable to forgive...

Because it didn't matter what they'd done to him: he couldn't do it back.

"I just don't understand." He was weeping and he didn't care: he was tired and he just wanted all of this horror to go away. "I don't understand why..."

He heard the brush of fabric against cardboard and knew though the intense blur of his tears that his uncle had moved out from behind the desk. The office was small and Feliciano couldn't help himself: he flinched back, stepping away until he knew he was out of space and had to stare at the floor to keep from looking at someone who had always, bar this incident, been like a father to him.

"I'm sorry, Feli." He felt hands touch his arms and tensed up without pulling away this time. He wanted to hiss at him not to force himself, not to pretend he was okay with touching something he obviously hated and just couldn't understand, but the words were jammed up against a sob he was hell-bent on keeping inside. When his uncle pulled him properly into the hug it was tight and close, Feliciano fighting to keep his hands down at his sides because he couldn't handle being loved and being hated at the same time. It wasn't fair for him to feel like the villain when he hadn't done anything to deserve any of this. "I'm sorry, and I'm sorry, and I'm never going to stop being sorry. And if your mother-"

"Please stop talking about her," he begged, and he closed his eyes and let his head fall forward, elbows pinned tight to his torso so he wouldn't try and lift his arms. He could smell heavy cologne and the polish used to buff the restaurant tables to a shine on his uncle's coat, and it was honestly all he could do not to give an insincere "I forgive you" instead just to make the embrace end. "Please don't..."

He wanted to hug back, but he wouldn't let himself.

"...I'm sorry..."

So when he felt his uncle start to cry again, Feliciano let himself do that instead.

I cried but that's because I'm a wimp, this wasn't really that heart-wrenching an argument… I thought I'd done better so I might edit it at some point.

For those who don't know: GRID was the name for AIDS before they knew what the crap AIDS even was. If you've ever heard of AIDS being the "gay disease" then you're thinking GRID-era (pre-1980s).