A/N: Chapter 6, for your viewing pleasure.
"I fancy an exploration of the city," Gilbert declared, buttoning his shirt as he strode alongside Roderich through the numerous hallways of the Academy building.
"Alright. Goodbye," Replied the brunette wryly. He wrinkled his nose at the sight of the barely-dressed Prussian. "Do not parade around half-clothed like some common -"
"Thief?"
"Gigolo." Gilbert's expression soured. They reached Roderich's classroom and stepped inside. Gilbert had evidently just served in another life-model class and, as a handyman, was expected to assist with the unpacking and organising of supplies for almost every department. Though, for some unfathomable reason, he favoured the art department.
"Such improper dress is certain to result in your expulsion from the Academy." Chided the younger as he set about arranging his art supplies gently upon his easel, on which his drawing rested.
The week had passed uneventfully; Roderich had proceeded to transfer his interpretive drawing onto a larger canvas, though he insisted to Professors Bonnefoy, Williams and others that 'pencil will be all the tools I need'. Having decided on a course of defence, the Austrian was set on maintaining it.
"Improper - they have nude modelling classes here! Particularly in this department there are quite literally naked people everywhere. The still-life sessions are worryingly popular for a city so chaste as this one," Gilbert retorted, moving desks out of the way and setting up other easels with other's work ready for defining, "perhaps it is Zeitgeist* that Vienna finally opened itself up to liberalism."
Roderich scoffed, making sure that his shirt collar was tied properly. "What is necessary in classrooms can be unacceptable elsewhere. There are also women present in this faculty; you would not want to frighten them with your bold lack of undress, would you, Beilschmidt?"
To this question the older simply offered a withering look. "Yes I forgot how terrified females are of the masculine torso." He tightened his belt and straightened his cuffs. "God forbid they see a knee cap."
"Sarcasm is a device used by the lesser man."
"Hypocrisy is a device used by the coward," Gilbert raised a pale eyebrow as he smirked. "I hereby demote you to peasantry." Roderich found himself unable to conjure a suitable counter; his mouth moved, failing to produce words, and he gave up. Gilbert smiled victoriously. "As I was saying," He continued, "I intend to tour the upper levels of Vienna city, the ones which do not rest solely upon the backs of impoverished families."
"Very well. Any city has its underclass." Roderich began to sharpen his graphite pencil, oblivious to the short glare the Prussian directed his way.
"The underclass is always made apparent by its communal agreement to wear silk."
Roderich's head snapped up. "How dare -"
Other students began to enter the room, along with Professor Bonnefoy. Dressed in his usual swordsman's attire, he approached the pair fairly quickly. The scent of an expensive perfume filled Roderich's nostrils. Near to him, he glimpsed Gilbert also wrinkling his nose slightly at the suddenly omnipotent odour.
"Grüẞ Gott, meine Herren," Bonnefoy began, his French accent softening his words. Roderich gulped before returning the greeting. Gilbert remained silent, returning to his practical work.
"I see your interpretation piece is coming along well," Bonnefoy stood before the work atop the easel, the Austrian stood awkwardly to the side. "Are you certain that pencil shading will do it justice?"
That comment reminded him of Gilbert's criticism last night. Internally, Roderich sighed. Perhaps they are not as different from each other as they first seemed. "Yes, Professor. I am confident that it will result in a desired monochrome effect."
Bonnefoy gave a pout which forewarned of his dislike. "The colourless art style is becoming outdated, I'm afraid. It lacks enticement. You know, I met a student of this Academy last year with a similar style to yours." He paused, his chin now cradled by his thumb and forefinger as he contemplated something. "His name was...Hitler, I believe. Adolf Hitler. Very bland man; he insisted on painting very historical portraits of Vienna. Admired the architecture. They were nice pieces, but superficial."
"Do you mean to insult me?"
"Of course not. One must not assume that similarity means equality. As soon as I met Herr Hitler, I understood that he did not possess the heart of an artist," Bonnefoy looked down at Roderich, whose brow now furrowed with uncertainty. "He saw beauty, he tried to capture beauty, but he could not, because he could not comprehend it." He leaned in, and Roderich briefly wondered what the residents of Vienna had against allowing individuals their personal space. "Despite our differences, you are different. Your understanding of beauty is already there, Herr Edelstein, from what I have heard. It is just restrained."
The brunette adjusted his spectacles, trying his best not to show alarm that his art teacher may have been told about him playing the abandoned piano. "This man, Adolf Hitler," He started, "what happened to him?"
Francis gave a gentle shrug. "Je ne sais pas. I do not know. But this Academy would not accept him - a wise decision, I must say. I do sometimes wonder what he is currently up to, though." With that, the professor moved away to converse with his other students.
Roderich's violet eyes were drawn back to his creation. Yes, maybe just this once, he could put this criticism to good use. He needed inspiration. He needed influence.
Gilbert was at the back of the classroom, placing boxes and bottles of powdered paints upon shelves. Roderich approached him, and said softly to his back, "I will accompany you, when you decide to explore Vienna. But I would that we visit the Kunsthistorisches Museum."
The older did not even turn around. "It appears that we agree that you should get out more."
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The flower was the central piece.
Looking all around the room, Roderich saw that his work was incredibly different from any other painting; everyone was painting landscapes, or fabrics, or abstract images which at first seemed indecipherable, but became clearer the longer one observed them.
His was...just a flower. Simply a fragmented primrose.
Or maybe it did not have to be.
Rushing to fetch the necessary supplies, Roderich soon had gathered up a collection of water colours: white, red, and black.
Using the fine tip of a paintbrush in his hand, the Austrian dipped it into the smallest, faintest amount of paint. Lightly, with trembling fingers, he touched paintbrush to canvas.
As he worked, a brief glimmer of confidence appeared in his expression. Perhaps I do have an eye for artwork after all.
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Three hours later, Roderich was feeling the extreme effects of lethargy weighing upon his limbs and his consciousness alike. Despite recently attending lunch at the Academy, food had not seemed to revive him so much as tempt him into a trance-like functionality.
He had spoken briefly with a few fellow classmates, but he was surprised to find himself increasingly left alone during his stay here. He understood the concept and the necessity of independent work, of course he did, but as he had been raised in a family which prided itself upon establishing a network of communications - particularly at reunions or galas - it was rather strange to be so detached now. Roderich had never really enjoyed aimless airs and graces exchanged between him and his distant relatives, nor had he liked the praise bestowed upon him by the colleagues of his father.
In fact, he preferred to endure people's strong criticism, an overt challenge, rather than their sycophantic niceties.
"He's a bit short, is he not?"
"Might he also be blind?"
"With any luck, he will still be healthy enough to produce legitimate offspring!"
His mother, bless her heart, had forced him into attending every single social gathering, if only as a trophy son. After all, that was the purpose of social gatherings: to show off one's kin, and to auction them off in pairs to ensure a future generation of pure bloodlines.
The Austrian had lost count of all the lovely young women to whom he had been introduced. He could no longer recall all of their faces, or their voices, or even the beautiful dresses they had been wearing. Though each of those ladies had been in the exact same position as him, with even more pressure, perhaps, to have healthy heirs and have no opportunities for any career other than a mother, Roderich felt no sympathy for them. The rich had their duties, just as the poor did.
Roderich had long ago accepted that he had his role to play in his world, whether or not he wanted it. Just as long as he had his music, he had never questioned anything.
He had never needed to.
The paintbrush stilled in his hand. He moved the tip milimetres from the paper, lest the paint drip onto the surface.
He took a step back, analysing his first official piece produced during his stay at the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts.
Professor Bonnefoy, who had been patiently reclining at a desk, pouring over the students' art portfolios, clocked the movement. He raised his finely-haired head, taking mild interest in the way the Austrian stroked his smooth chin, head tilted, violet eyes narrowed at his painting. Eventually, Francis saw, he deemed the artwork finished, with a slight upward tilt of the jaw.
The simplest gestures betrayed the boldest emotions. Francis recognised this one: pride.
Roderich noticed his professor once again making his way over to him. He swallowed.
"I believe this piece is finished, Professor."
Bonnefoy scrutinised it, cool blue eyes tracing every line. "I see you have amended your design," Was all he said of the finished product.
Roderich decided that the comment was neutral in tone; it seemed likely that the Academy would label it a starting point for his art career.
"Be sure to file it in your portfolio. It is important to show the development of your works. Well done on completing your first piece a few days early, perhaps you can begin planning the identity project piece."
Roderich gave a curt nod. He glared at his professor's back as he walked away; the ambiguity of the judgement irritated him beyond belief.
After filing his sketch and project piece into the large portfolio, he went about searching for Gilbert.
The one person on this Earth, who Roderich did not want to see the flower painting.
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He found him in one of the sculpting rooms, after seeking advice from a secretary. Gilbert was busy packing tools into their respective drawers and boxes. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, his shirt collar loose. Even from across the room, the Austrian could see the sweat and dirt accumulating on his pale skin.
Gilbert, clearly exhausted, perched uncomfortably atop one of the opened drawers, his back against an indistinguishable statue. Through dusty eyelashes the albino spotted the younger man. "Have you come to help me move these supplies?"
Roderich licked his lips. "Not even if you paid me." He observed the room with disinterest. "Of all the disciplines in this Academy, I expect sculpting to be the most inconvenient to cleaners."
"You're telling me," Gilbert stretched; his spine gave an audible crack. "When this class finished, some students offered to help with clearance, but I told them to go. I'm just grateful that I don't have to sweep the floor," He rubbed a foot in a semicircle on the ground: a clear line was exposed, indicating the amount of sand and debris which had collected there.
"Damn sculptors and their chiselling. Architects, too. Some of them are personable, but others are miserable as shit." Red eyes met violet. "Today I had a spat with this Italian immigrant about how statues are balanced, and he talked down to me. Worse than the insults you give me, Specs."
"It is Edelstein."
"As I was saying, he mouthed off - the typical comments, so I -" The older man suddenly paused and looked away, as if he were embarrassed. "I might have accidentally pushed a block of stone onto his foot."
"Accidentally?"
"That's how I made it appear, yes." Roderich raised an eyebrow, but before any further remark could be made, Gilbert jumped up. "Needless to say, I've made another enemy here."As he neared the younger man, the stench of body odour became even stronger. Roderich made a face. I may have preferred Professor Bonnefoy's perfume. "You smell terrible."
"Thank you."
"You must wash yourself before we go into the city proper."
Gilbert blinked in surprise. "Giving orders doesn't suit you. You're more of a sheep."
This time, Roderich was able to deflect the jab with one of his own. "If I am a sheep, you, sir, are a weasel. That would indeed explain the disgusting scent about you. Now hurry up, the day is wasting."
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Getreidemarkt, Vienna, Austria.
"Where exactly are we headed first?"
"I don't much care, as long as we visit the Museum." The late February weather had brought no warmth, only more hints of frost. Roderich used to think that he had been lucky to join the Academy when he did, narrowly avoiding the often freezing and snow-covered winter of Vienna. He felt less lucky now. In fact, he could barely feel his fingers, despite the thick gloves he wore. The sun shone coldly onto both figures as they made their way along the pavement, heading north past the Academy, up towards the Museumsquartier.
His double-breasted coat and thick cotton trousers did little to battle the afternoon chill. Huffing out shallow breaths, the Austrian glanced up at the Berliner who shuffled alongside him. He wore only his usual attire, no insulating button-up nor even a coat. He wore his typical dandy shirt, still spotted with dirt. His arms were clenched tightly over his chest: a vain attempt to preserve his core temperature, Roderich realised.
"A-alright. M-maybe we should f-find a nice café," Gilbert stuttered. "O-or, anywhere with a heating system -"
"For goodness' sake," Muttered the younger, turning to cross the road between the tram cars. "Follow me."
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It did not take Roderich long to find a tailor in an esteemed city like Vienna. That, and his father had previously recommended he find this particular place during his course, as it was 'the best fit for an Austrian gentleman'. At least if Gilbert were clothed properly he might make it back to his dorm room before contracting pneumonia.
Inside, it was warm and dry, with a distinctly humble atmosphere. Virtually empty. Racks of coats and three-piece suits hung on hangers, neatly arranged according to size, fabric, style and colour. Shoes were stored on a collection of drawers and display cabinets; upon plastic heads there were a variety of hats, from bowler to top. Near the back of the tailor there were a few fitting rooms, all covered with individual curtains. The shop was made from glazed mahogany.
Gilbert rushed to the nearest radiator, pressing himself against it. He let out a relieved sigh as he cast Roderich a look. "And I thought you would leave me to freeze in the street."
"A tempting idea, I grant you." Roderich began to whisper conspiratorially. "Please do not steal anything." At this, Gilbert's expression was deadpan. "I can't even feel my bloody fingers, how would I go about stealing?"
"Thieves make do-"
"May I help you, gentlemen?" The tailor approached them, old and withered - but impeccably well dressed. His gaze glided over Roderich, but he observed Gilbert reverently through his monocle. "Is this man troubling you, sir?"
Roderich need not ask for clarification: he knew the question was directed at him. He straightened his back, only just taller than the stooped shop owner. "No, believe it or not he is with me. He is looking for a formal suit."
Though still wary, the prospect of business placated the man. "Ah, one worthy of this city, you mean."
"But of course, my good man."
Within minutes, the tailor had picked out a suit. Black, tailcoat, top hat, Brogues. Gilbert, who had now joined Roderich in the centre of the shop, nodded in approval.
"This should fit you well, Herr…"
"Beilschmidt."
"Herr Beilschmidt." The old man pronounced the name as if it were a bitter taste. He must know that it is not Austrian, thought Roderich as he waited for Gilbert outside one of the fitting rooms.
The curtain rustled. "Don't peek, Princess."
Roderich nudged his ankle with his foot. "Do not speak too much, you'll waste your two brain cells."
"Are you ever nice?" Gilbert grunted as he pulled on an item of clothing. "To anyone?"
"To women and fellow noblemen. You are not exactly the easiest company to keep." The old tailor passed them, giving Roderich a strange look, as if he were not sure of how to interpret their exchange. Luckily, another gentleman stepped through the door, the bell gave little ting, and he was distracted once more.
"I do recall," Roderich continued softly, "the last time we were in the city, you called me a swine."
"An honest mistake," Came the muffled reply, "those glasses do pinch your nose quite a bit. What with my concussion, I only saw a pig."
The brunette grit his teeth. "The least you could do is pay your gracious donor some respect. I am buying you a suit, after all." The rustling stopped. Then, "You're buying it for me? I thought I was going to have to get it."
"With what money?"
"Jeez, it's almost as if I'm employed at the Academy or something. I do have some savings on my person."
Suddenly the curtain was drawn, making the younger man jump.
The man before him was completely different than the skulking thief he'd met in Vienna two weeks ago.
Clad all in black, the dark fabric contrasted blindingly with his pale skin and white hair. The tailcoat reached down to his calves, and the waistcoat wrapped neatly around his torso, hugging his abdomen. The shoes were recently shined and reflected the lighting. The top hat made him seem taller. Under the brim of said hat, his ruby eyes were shrouded in shadow.
Gilbert Beilschmidt looked devilishly handsome.
He grinned down at Roderich, turning, flaunting the outfit. Standing opposite the mirror, he admired himself shamelessly. "Does my behind look big in this?"
With a slight blush, Roderich realised that he did cast a glance below Gilbert's waistline. It was only a brief look, he consoled himself as he offered the tailor the money, it means nothing.
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They walked in silence, passing more and more townspeople. The noise of the crowds began to rise.
Roderich glanced at Gilbert. "Warmer now?"
He was answered with a comfortable smirk. "Toasty." Gilbert seemed to want to say something else, but for whatever reason he changed the topic. "Let's go to Mariahilferstraẞe. I hear it has a good market."
They continued walking along the pavement, eventually crossing the road, turning left. Mariahilferstraẞe was bustling with people. Rather upper-class people, Roderich noted. It was with such a realisation that he had the urge to ask Gilbert something. "Beilschmidt."
"Yeah?"
"Why would you frequent such an area of Vienna?"
As they swayed to avoid the groups of businessmen and wealthy dames, all clad in extravagant robes. Now, what with Gilbert's new clothes, both he and Roderich blended in perfectly, even if Gilbert's pale hair and unusual eyes did attract a few glances.
In reply to the Austrian's question, the Berliner simply looked at him, one thin eyebrow risen, as if he expected Roderich to figure it out.
With a scowl, he did just that. "This was a hunting ground of yours, was it not?"
A horse and carriage rattled past. With amusement, Roderich saw that Gilbert seemed visibly uncomfortable around horses now. Serves him right. Thief.
"Beggars can't be choosers. Thieves take what they can get."
"Veritable leeches of society."
On either side of them, tall buildings loomed. Mostly shops and hotels and restaurants, all with many thick-framed windows. A few spires pierced the mottled grey sky, and telephone cables stretched like obsidian serpents between the roofs. All along the shopfronts, protective parasol-esque fabric was held above them over struts.
The market was being held today, and, just as Gilbert had said, it did look rather good.
There were several stalls filled with various fruit, dried meats, vegetables and homemade goods. Pastries, biscuits and bread, all packed up neatly in well-covered boxes. A few people were trying to flog items of clothing, or cheap mechanical objects sold for at least twice their original value. Roderich took all of this in as he strode past each stall, narrowing his eyes not only at the prices, but at the quality of some of aforementioned goods.
Gilbert was forced to walk behind him, due to the masses of people, carrying his little paper bag in which his dirtier clothes resided. Everyone was so loud; Roderich had always detested walking around busy marketplaces. If they were relatively empty, that suited him just fine, but when there were so many figures bumping into him, chatting loudly, laughing raucously or giggling merrily, it just put him in a foul mood. Not to mention all the opportunities for thievery, he thought, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at the older man as he reached inside his coat, touching his wallet to assure himself.
Oblivious to the younger's resentment, Gilbert just kept on smiling at people, and tipping his hat to the ladies who passed by, all modestly clothed in blouses and long skirts. After all, the more one can charm one's victims, the easier the execution of the crime.
Finally, upon reaching a fairly deserted row of fruit stalls, Roderich stopped to peruse his surroundings.
Gilbert almost walked into him. "Didn't know you had the hots for oranges."
"I am only browsing."
To one side of the boxes were ripe Weirouge apples. The owner was haggling with a few customers; Roderich glimpsed Gilbert's pale, long-fingered hand reaching out, curling around an apple -
Roderich's own hand clamped Gilbert's wrist, squeezing. "Stop."
Red eyes gleamed. "What? I can't afford it -"
"That is no reason to steal one." He gripped the wrist tighter, so much so that Gilbert winced. He finally dropped the fruit. "You are already fed at the Academy, anyway. Why would you need extra food?"
Gilbert looked away. "Just - wanted to try one," He muttered. Roderich tilted his jaw up in realisation. Ah, you do have a sense of shame, after all.
Without meeting the Austrian's eyes, Gilbert shuffled over to the stalls on the other side of the street, suddenly appearing very interested in hand-crafted jewelry. Roderich considered buying him an apple, but frankly, he had no intentions about rewarding unacceptable social behaviour. He crossed over to him.
"Perhaps you were hoping to pin any blame on me." The suspicion in his tone was clear.
Turning abruptly to him, Gilbert puffed out his chest in defiance. "What an unruly speculation. I am positively flabbergasted. Incredibly mortified. To think, my friend Edelstein would accuse me of perjury -"
"You wanted me to pay for it, didn't you?"
"Bingo," Gilbert chuckled with a wink. "Like they'd ever suspect a gentleman of theft."
Roderich blinked. "A wolf in sheep's clothing is still a wolf."
For once, Gilbert did not present a fiery retort as was typical of him. This naturally inclined Roderich to believe that he had won a verbal victory, but this belief was horribly crushed when the Austrian noticed that Gilbert was actually looking past him. A brief expression of fear crossed his features, at such a speed that Roderich had no time to comment on it.
He tried to look around, to find the source of his distraction, but Gilbert swatted his arm.
"Movement attracts the eye," Was all the explanation he offered.
Slowly, he looked down at the collection before him, hands wavering over the smooth wooden bracelets or braided necklaces. For some reason, despite his own curiosity, Roderich decided to follow suit. Perhaps, he debated, it was better he not know what had caught Gilbert's attention so intensely.
He doubted that he had ever seen Gilbert fearful before. This was not the kind of fear exhibited when one is on the verge of dropping heavy boxes of art supplies, nor would it be the kind shown before being trampled by a horse and carriage.
This was a fear borne of recognition.
Unbeknown to Roderich, this recognition was already being reciprocated.
Behind him, a gruff voice spoke. "Beil." Just from that one word, Roderich could tell that this was no Austrian; he was a Slav.
Gilbert cursed between gritted teeth and tightened lips. He raised his head so that the brim of his hat no longer provided shelter for his eyes. The cocky grin which Roderich had become gently accustomed to was not present. Instead, Gilbert Beilschmidt wore the most serious expression of which he was likely capable.
"Ivan," He spoke softly, unwilling for other passers-by to eavesdrop, "never would have expected to see you here. Or ever again, for that matter."
Roderich remained silent, shifting to see the brute of a man behind him. Indeed, he was stocky, scruffily-clothed, and if a height so tall it automatically demanded obedience. The stranger's eyes were narrow, tinged with violet much like Roderich's own, but partially concealed behind a nose he had probably inherited from Neanderthal parents. Another wolf.
The man, Ivan, jerked a tick thumb towards a narrow alleyway leading out from the market. "Need to talk to you."
Gilbert licked his chapped lips briefly, before moving to go with him. Roderich's head snapped to him. "What is going on?"
Again, that humourless glance. "Can't you see, Specs? I found an old friend."
Gilbert had told Roderich to remain by the market, or, as he forebodingly worded it, 'in the open'. Roderich followed him anyway. Gilbert did not protest his accompaniment to any great extent, and they three were gathered in the alleyway, which was shaded, mouldy, and alarmingly deteriorated.
Ivan crossed his arms, planting his feet a distance from the pair. He is blocking the exit, Roderich noted in subtle dismay, brow furrowed.
Gilbert stepped before Roderich. "What do you want, Ivan?"
Ivan jutted his jaw with a scoff. "So rude. We need you to come back."
"Why? I'm of no particular importance to you lot."
"Agreed, but we need all the men we can get," Ivan answered solemnly. "And you know too much to be wandering around freely."
Gilbert tongued his cheek. "It is as if he were speaking to me in person," He remarked. "It was he who told you what to say, right? Reign me in?"
To this, Ivan gave no reaction. Roderich watched them interact, mesmerised and incredibly confused. "I'm not harming anyone," Gilbert continued.
"Still, you must return," Ivan retorted, his thick accent warping his pronunciation most beautifully, "we are...preparing, again. He said that our troops must be rallied."
"Troops?" Gilbert repeated, "we were barely a circus. What is it, this occasion, if it requires many men?"
Ivan looked ready to answer, but his cold, cold eyes shifted to the younger man. "No specifics if he's here." Roderich's cheeks began to burn as Gilbert glanced back at him, then to Ivan again.
"It's that big, huh."
Silence.
"You should go, Specs."
Roderich was taken aback. "I am not leaving," He declared with as stern a voice he could summon. "Whatever this man would say to you he will say before me, otherwise our business here is done."
As soon as the sentence left his tongue, Roderich knew he had blundered. Ivan looked ready to pounce.
Stepping back, Roderich just missed the fist thrown at him by the Russian, Gilbert's arm outstretched to deflect the blow. Gilbert gripped Ivan's wrist, face inches from the other's. "I want nothing to do with you lot, or with him, any more. I'm done."
"You know too much," Ivan sneered, "he will send us after you again. That time, there will be no talking."
Gilbert sighed. Roderich had not realised how close he was to the other man until he felt his body relax with the outlet of breath. Then, the Berliner reached up with his free hand, took off his top hat, and passed it into Roderich's fingers. "Hold my hat."
To Ivan, he whispered, "Very well. Please give him this from me." And his arm rose, his fingers curled, and he hit him in the face.
Ivan reeled, grunting in pain, but not defeated. His shoulder glanced off the stonework, and Gilbert took his chance to move past him, Roderich in tow, narrowly escaping the Russian man's grip as he reached for them.
Out onto the marketplace, Roderich was unconvinced that they were any safer.
"Go, go," Gilbert urged, practically pushing him back along Mariahilferstraẞe.
"Wait - what -"
"Just move, I don't know if there are any more around!" Turning left, they entered the street leading up to the Museum of Historical Art. They were again lost in a sea of people; only then did Gilbert seem to calm down.
He looked down at Roderich. The brunette asked nothing, and simply handed him his hat.
"That market was a tad too hectic for my liking, Herr Beilschmidt."
Gilbert rubbed his knuckles gently. "Believe me, Herr Edelstein, that was nothing special."
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A/N : Thank you for the comments, they are wonderful sources of motivation!
*Zeitgeist = spirit of the time. I.e. A sense that it is time for something to change.