My apologies for the unforgivably late update, I hope you all enjoy chapter 4!

All was well when Roderich Edelstein awoke early the next day. So early, in fact, that only the slightest hint of sunrise had crept into the night sky. Yawning and stretching, he made his way out of his room and towards the bathrooms, necessary clothes, towel and soap in hand.

There were several other dorm rooms located next to the bathroom door. Turning on the lights inside the tiled room, he decided that the risk of waking others up was less dire than not being able to see what he was doing.

Roderich usually considered himself a product of some of the most intelligent Austrian blood - that is, until he was confronted, half-naked, with the controls of one of the showers. The room itself was split into two sections: the left, which contained several urinals and toilets, and the right, which of course had the showers, communal and private. Roderich had only ever taken baths.

These controls seemed quite unnerving. A handle and a couple of switches. Roderich yanked the handle; ice-cold water sprayed from the shower head and the Austrian made a noise which could only be described as effeminate as he jumped back from the offending liquid.

Someone flung open the door and rushed in. "What's going on?" A sleep-affected male voice questioned, "I heard a woman panicking in here!" The sight the newcomer was confronted with was apparently so hilarious that the boy could not stifle his laughter. "Oh. Sorry," He wheezed, as Roderich glowered at him from the frame of the open cubicle. He was glad that he had not yet removed his towel.

"Hey, turn that off, you're wasting water," The boy was about his age, tall, with a dark mop of hair; he shuffled past Roderich to turn back the handle. "There."

"T-thank you," Mumbled the brunette, hugging himself against the cold air. Seeing as the taller was clad only in loose drawstring shorts, it was a wonder he could even be comfortable strolling around like that. Not even goosebumps, Roderich noted as he was faced by the other.

"You're the transfer art student, yes? I'm Diedrich." The Austrian quickly shook the proffered hand, "Ah...Roderich Edelstein," He nodded towards the shower, "please do not consider this presumptuous of me, but seeing as you know how to work these controls, could you show me?"

Diedrich grinned. "Easy. You did not turn on the hot water switch."

Roderich blinked. Indeed there were indications of what the switches signified."Oh. Perhaps I was too tired to properly read the labels."

Diedrich chuckled once more, folding his arms. "I don't think that is -"

"Nevertheless that will be the excuse I give for disturbing your sleep," Roderich looked up at him, "are you a first year student, as well?" He was not overly keen on making conversation whilst clothed, let alone when practically nude, however he felt it an obligation after this person had saved him from likely contracting pneumonia.

"No, actually, I am a second year music student. Violin. And considering that my room is right next to the showers, you would not believe how many identical incidents I have encountered in my time here," Diedrich answered, his hazel eyes crinkled by a smile. Roderich did not understand how someone could be so happy at such an hour. "I see."

"Well, I'll let you take your shower now," The older Austrian made to leave. "But know this: as soon as you drop that towel, you are on your own."

Forcing a thankful, if slightly embarrassed, smile in return, Roderich simply nodded as he left.

Now stood under the warm water flow, Roderich let his concerns follow the water down the drain, if only for a little while.

.

.

.

Making his way to his assigned art classroom, Roderich sighed in content. His hunger sated and his body clean, he always enjoyed this feeling of cleanliness and nutrition, as did other people apparently, his mother once commented, because it meant that he was less likely to snap at people.

"Specs! Morning!"

The too-loud and all-too-familiar voice reached his ears, causing the Austrian to wince. What a way to ruin the morning peace.

"Yes, hello, Beilschmidt," Grumbled the younger man. As he descended some stairs, Roderich felt an arm drape heavily across his shoulder, and promptly pushed it off.

He could hear the pout as the German continued to speak. "Did you not sleep well? You still seem cranky."

Yes, Roderich thought, Mother was right. Less likely to snap, but not completely impossible. "Have you considered the idea that my decline in mood is associated with your presence this morning?"

Now shoulder-to-shoulder as they walked, Gilbert feigned deep thought, placing a hand to his chin. "Hmmm…No, I'm a delight."

You are definitely something. "So, what compels you to accompany me?"

"I have my first class as a life-model."

Roderich frowned, catching Gilbert's ruby eyes. "They have already accepted you? I-in this class?" He gestured to the doors through which his class was stationed. Gilbert shook his head. "Not this class yet. I don't think your course is doing that type of observation yet, anyway," He winked, his pale hair falling haphazardly. "Patience is a virtue, little Edelstein."

"Be quiet." Scoffing at the older man's distaste, Roderich proceeded to enter the art room, Gilbert's chuckle following at his back.

.

.

.

The very sight of his art professor brought back forcefully-buried memories of the previous evening, ones which the young Austrian was not hoping to remember.

"Just five more minutes…" He could not expel the images of two men embracing from his head, could not forget the sultry sound of Bonnefoy's voice as he spoke to Mr Williams.

With a sense of regret, Roderich decided that he should have taken the Frenchman's advice and not participate in eavesdropping. Ever.

"Today begins your first project, class," Began Francis Bonnefoy, standing in front of the arranged easels. "You will have two weeks to complete your observation, capture and interpretation of your chosen item. However, in these next weeks all will be expected to complete at least three pilot drawings of different objects, before choosing your most favoured one as a final piece template." He sauntered over to the nearest window sill, a long hand gesturing towards the foliage and statues surrounding the Academy grounds.

"Of course, we are not yet specifically focusing on the architecture of this city, but by all means if you believe you can create a detailed interpretation of buildings then please do so. The criteria is for only inanimate objects to be used, therefore people may not be the central focus."

Someone's hand rose, but because of the easel Roderich could not see who it was. Francis nodded to the person. "Johannes?"

"What if the person were to be a still-life model," Johannes ventured, "then they would count as inanimate."

The question made Roderich smile and the class collectively chuckled.

"There's always one," Murmured the professor as he clapped his hands once to silence his students once more. "Very well, then, Johannes, as you require specified instructions, we shall say no sentient or intelligent being may be the focus of this piece. That would leave yourself to be a candidate, oui?" More laughter from the class as Johannes shook his head, a smirk barely concealed. In his peripheral vision, Roderich even noticed the typically stern Elizaveta giggling.

"Any art materials which are within the Academy's possession are yours to use, please take care seeking your inspiration and be sure to use pencil whilst designing. Mr Heinrich, if I catch you using ink for a template again you will be suspended from one of the the Academy's gorgeous staircases by your drawstrings."

Roderich heard an ashamed snort near the back of the room, and could only imagine how red the man's face was. "Understood, Professor."

"Good: begin!"

.

.

.

Roderich had gone straight to the music room he and Gilbert had stumbled across on their first night at the Academy. He heard music resonating in the halls, but as he neared he noted that it was not coming from that particular room. Regardless, he knocked on the thick door before entering.

Mother would put me over her knee if she thought I had lost my manners. As he suspected, the grand room was empty of people. There were music stands collected in the far left corner, and a harp sat upon the stage, opposite the piano Roderich had seen.

He clutched the sketchbook and pencil case tighter.

Instead of sitting on the steps of the stage, and sketch the piano from below as planned, he found himself sat on the stool before he had realised what was happening.

He lay down his accessories atop the smooth mahogany surface. Lifted the lid of the piano. Set his feet upon the pedals. Spread his fingers out like cobwebs over the keys, hovering, hesitant.

It felt as though he were doing something illegal.

Which is why he savoured the feeling of excitement as he began to play a soft tune; nothing of particular significance. Roderich did not even recognise it as a classical piece. It was simply a melody.

He had missed this: both sets of fingers moving in a set rhythm to maintain the notes, being able to close his eyes and have faith that his fingertips would lead him into a tranquil state of meditation. It was, for those few moments, bliss.

Roderich realised as his eyes fluttered open that this was his interpretation of his passion for music. One could not paint with one's eyes closed, after all.

Now that his mind was sharpened, he began to structure the movements of his fingers; he started to play Beethoven's No. 14, Moonlight Sonata. Hands in perfect synchrony, he recalled memories of hours spent trying to learn, to master this rather simple piece. The chords became directionally imbalanced, conveying a somewhat curious mood, the sounds almost like steps, descending, ascending, softening now one chord prevails -

"You are very good at that." The sudden voice made Roderich jump, accidentally pressing too hard on the keys to create a low, droning monotone.

Brushing back his hair, the Austrian abruptly turned to face the intrusive sound.

A man, dressed in black robes and cap, stood a few feet from the stage. Roderich stared, befuddled. I did not even hear him enter.

"I - thank you," The words tumbled from his mouth clumsily. The man gave a gentle smile. "I did not mean to interrupt, only, I have to set this room up for a practice session next period. I am Professor Kierwald of the music department."

Standing and collecting his things, Roderich fought the blush which threatened to override his cheeks as he strode to meet the ageing musician. "Good morning, I am Roderich Edelstein."

"I do not recall seeing you in my class, are -"

"Actually, Professor, I am here on an art course." Roderich briefly lifted the art supplies as proof. Professor Kierwald's thin eyebrows rose, "Is that so. If you are this talented in music, I wonder what your artwork must look like," he commented offhandedly.

Roderich flashed an insincere smile. "Unsatisfying, as thinks every artist of their work, be it with chords or colours."

Kierwald tilted his head slightly. "I find it hard to believe that great musicians such as Beethoven or Chopin would ever be dissatisfied with the products of their hearts and souls. But I wish you luck with your course, Mr Edelstein." Roderich fought the urge to answer back. He knew that during the composing of his No. 14 Sonata, Beethoven himself had become so exasperated that he had reportedly remarked to fellow composer Carl Czerny: 'surely I've written better things'.

Roderich un-clenched his jaw, which until now he did not notice had been tensed. "Thank you, Sir."

Just as he left, Professor Kierwald called after him, "If ever you do need encouragement in your efforts, feel free to come and play again."

Roderich walked out without acknowledging the last statement. He did not like the way that man spoke, as if he knew more than Roderich, as if Roderich was but a child. The Austrian detested many things; contempt and patronising were one of the worst duos to experience, and they often went hand-in-hand.

He by no means denied being a hypocrite, though. If he wanted to show contempt or talk down to somebody, he would; the shame of being the receiver was too much for his fragile pride to compute.

I shall have to sketch that piano another time.

.

.

.

Exiting the previous hallway, Roderich once more passed his classroom, which was filled with other students, all scrambling to find necessary supplies, competing for space or in one case, having immense trouble adjusting an easel. Glancing at a clock in the corridor, the brunette saw that much of the morning had already passed: 11:15AM. Nearby he heard many footsteps as a class was dismissed.

For the art students attending the Academy, their curriculum was somewhat more relaxed, considering that the majority of their work was solitary and individual.

For example, the only reasons they had professors for this course was to ensure that students had access to professional artists who could guide and inform them on how to be high-achieving creators.

Deciding that the best inspiration often came of its own accord, Roderich made his way to the canteen, aiming to sit at one of the empty tables and gaze out of windows until a useful idea presented itself.

Except that as he arrived, the Austrian noticed that not all of the tables were unoccupied.

Him again. The hunched figure of Gilbert Beilschmidt lurched over the table before him, forehead resting on his crossed arms. Something did not seem right. While it was true enough that Roderich barely knew this man, such a closed posture appeared a contradistinction to Gilbert's usual expressive behaviour.

Resigning himself to play the confidante, Roderich stepped over to where he sat and took a place opposite him.

At first Gilbert flinched, shrinking further into his cower before risking a glance at whom now sat with him. "Specs?"

Roderich folded his arms frustratedly over his wrinkled apron. "It's Edelstein."

Gilbert shot him a dubious look, one silvery eyebrow arched. "What are you doin' here? Don't you have class?"

"Independent work. And I am here because I wanted to be alone, but after I noticed your sorry self I thought you might appreciate a conversational partner."

The other man snorted. "That's unusually thoughtful of you, Priss. I was certain you couldn't care less about me."

"Speaking of unusualities, perhaps you could divulge to me why you were drowning in self-pity before I came here."

"Believe it or not, your being here did not drain my puddle of woe. I rather feel it has begun to rain."

Roderich sighed, adjusting his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. "Insisting on sulking will only make you more unapproachable to others."

"Ah, destructive criticism, how I have missed it." Catching a glimpse of Gilbert's pale face under his white locks, Roderich's violet eyes narrowed. "Why are your eyes red?"

The albino's fingertips tapped impatiently upon the wooden tabletop. "You know why my eyes are red, you -"

"No," Interrupted Roderich carefully, "I mean, have you been cr-"

"Hayfever. Stupid spring weather." At the older man's response, the brunette simply shot him a sceptical look, one which Gilbert did not see because he still refused to meet his eyes.

"Beilschmidt." The monotone of that one word brought forth a sharp outlet of breath from the white-haired German, and he hoisted his shoulders to sit up straighter. "I...just finished my first class in which I was a life-model."

The Austrian wanted to query as to how that experience had been, but decided to remain silent. Gilbert continued. "I was to stand in a specified pose for forty minutes as they sketched me, wearing only my trousers. Did I mention I've been officially employed by the Academy?"

"You did tell me, yes."

"I had a meeting with senior professors here yesterday. They said I would be on minimum wage, to work as an assistant and model when needed, in return for them allowing me to stay. Anyway, in the class, I...they were staring at me."

In the distant music room, a tune blossomed to fill the buildings of the Academy, instantly stealing the attention of Roderich's ears. He recognised this movement, too. Air, by Johann Sebastian Bach. Its lighthearted notes carried towards them like feathers on a gust of wind.

Even Gilbert had paused to enjoy it momentarily.

"I do not wish to alarm you," Replied Roderich eventually, "but observation classes generally to command the necessity for staring at the object one focuses upon."

"No need to be saucy. I meant, that they seemed wary and disgusted with my appearance. I'm used to that, of course, but I thought artists would have more appreciation for the unnatural." Gilbert rested his cheek on a balled fist. "They were even laughing at me, and mocking me as they worked." Roderich had no clue how to respond. I cannot empathise with him. However… His thoughts reeled back to just after he had met the German, when he had fallen to the Viennese pavement and no one would help him. They had just...stared. Perhaps I can relate, somewhat. "Are you certain?"

Gilbert's tongue flicked across dry lips. "One of them said, 'it is a challenge to capture imperfection on canvas'. What the hell does that mean?" The question was undoubtedly rhetorical; the brunette answered nonetheless.

"It means those students are insolent and that they clearly do not harbour respect for those willing to be scrutinised in the name of art."

Such words took both men by surprise. It was in that second that Roderich realised he had never insulted Gilbert based on his looks. His personality was another matter, and one the Austrian would argue was worth challenging, but not the man's condition.

Now those crimson orbs had refocused on Roderich. "It was a pretty intimidating experience, but hey, I'm gettin' paid. I can suffer a few offending comments now and then." He brushed some hair from before his eyes. "You...really don't think I deserved that?"

Roderich was offended. "I - of course not! Nobody should be outright penalised for their appearance, especially if it cannot be altered."

Those same dark red eyes were overshadowed by a sinking brow. "Don't pity me, Princess. Even if I could change what I look like, I wouldn't."

"I wasn't -"

"You upper-class pigs think you're better than everyone else, and never miss an opportunity to imply so -"

"I was agreeing with you!" Roderich slammed his palms down as he stood up, his fringe falling from its common style. It is always about the class system for him! "For goodness' sake, I agree that you should not have been treated that way. Different is not imperfect, Gilbert. Evidently few people understand that."

When he finally looked up, Roderich noticed that Gilbert had been fixing him with a surprised gaze.

"What?" Barked the Austrian, a tinge of red colouring his cheeks. The older male leaned back partially. "You didn't strike me as one so concerned with equality. It's also strange to hear allied words coming from your mouth."

"Yes, well," Roderich dusted himself down, as if he could brush the unwelcome aggression off, "you had best not become accustomed to that. Frankly if they had decided to judge you based on your previous occupation and current crass mannerisms I would have joined in." That earned a smile from the taller as he, too, stood up to leave. "Bet you only came here to hear me talk of stripping in front of spectators," Gilbert retorted with a grin. "My, my, what voyeuristic fetishes are you hiding, little Edelstein?"

Roderich blanched. "Do not be disgusting. Besides I am not the one obsessed with the opinions of others."

Gilbert strode out of the room, throwing a casual comment over his shoulder. "Yeah, like I've never heard an aristocrat say that before."

.

.

.