A/N: I had aimed to post this chapter earlier, but regardless, I wish everyone happy holidays and hope you are all enjoying the story.
Roderich was struggling to process what had just happened. It did not compute, at least not without the urge to ask thousands of questions. He had never before found himself in the position of desiring to interrogate someone, but then again, it appeared that he was overcoming many first-times with this Berliner.
He regretted his earlier desire to discover more about Gilbert Beilschmidt. If his exposition involved Russian thugs and conspiracies, Roderich wanted to be affiliated with none of it.
With every passing second, however, the temptation of opening his mouth grew ever stronger. After what had likely been only a few minutes of internal monologue, Roderich spoke up, well aware that they were not alone on this pavement.
"Are you going to explain what the devil just happened?"
Gilbert's reply was instant. "No."
"Despite the fact that I was almost assaulted?"
"Despite that, yeah. And you're welcome."
Sinking disappointment rested heavily in the pit of the Austrian's stomach; yes, he did not want to be involved with whatever world Gilbert was in, but that by no means meant that he was not interested by it.
They passed some more stalls, a couple of shops, another café. There was an alcove in the wall of the street, which marked the entrance to another lane. A young lad rested in that alcove, covered by moth-eaten blankets, barely clothed. His shoes, Roderich saw, had frost on them after another cold February night. The boy's face was smeared with dirt, to such an extent that his features were barely distinguishable. He was holding up his upturned cap in one trembling hand, trying to catch the attention of the wealthy as they sauntered by.
His wide, dark eyes looked into Roderich's. "Change, Mister?" Even his voice was wracked by the low temperature. Roderich froze. He was not used to being confronted with, well, abject poverty. Or any poverty at all. He just stood there, being jostled by others, staring with the expression of a goldfish.
Gilbert moved them out of the current of the crowd, and crouched before the boy, who shrunk back in fear.
"Do you have anywhere you should be?" He asked, with the tone of one trying to comfort a cornered animal. The lad shook his head, shuffled back a bit further into the alcove. Roderich then noted with alarm that the boy's right leg was missing below the knee. It was poorly dressed in bandages.
Gilbert pulled out what was no doubt some of his savings from the Academy. He handed a few notes to the boy, who looked on in disbelief. "Some Kronen," He stated. "There is an inn close by: do you know of it?"
Still stupefied, the boy managed a nod.
"Good. This isn't much, but it should buy you a couple of nights there." Shaking himself of his stupor, the lad wrenched himself to his foot, an old cane under his right arm, clutching the notes close to his heart under the cap. Gilbert stood as well.
"Th-thank you," The lad mumbled, before exclaiming, "thank you so much, sir!" But Gilbert simply nodded, without even a smile, and watched the boy as he limped off down the quiet lane in search of the inn.
Roderich closed his jaw, which he had failed to notice had been hanging open. This man walking beside him was most certainly full of surprises.
"Right," Gilbert started, "let's get to the Museum."
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.
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Never in Roderich's life had he witnessed such cultural beauty as that exhibited in the Museum of Historical Art.
As soon as he entered the grand lobby, the breath was ripped from his lungs. Suddenly, he wondered why he and his family had not ventured to come here before.
Gilbert stood by his shoulder, unusually silent. But then again, Roderich reasoned, such an image as this would naturally halt even the most lively of tongues.
A domed entry hall was structured by several tall archways, each with two dark marble pillars. Intricate designs reminiscent of Aztec symbols were printed onto the smooth floor and reflected on stone in the high ceiling. Staircases waited behind each archway, no doubt leading to ever-more astonishing displays of beauty.
There was a steady stream of visitors, so both men were forced from their appreciative trance - not that they were the only ones enraptured by the initial sight - and after paying a small entrance fee, they ascended the grand staircase.
Roderich's cheeks began to burn; he felt shameful leaving so much as a speck of dirt upon the polished white steps. At the top of the staircase, two Greek statues either side of the banisters, and one in the centre of the landing. The mass of newcomers spread themselves out, heading to various parts of the Museum. Roderich scrutinised the statue. A heavily muscled man looked to be attacking some kind of beast.
Gilbert, finally, spoke up, arms folded expertly at the small of his back. "Theseus slaying the centaur," He declared, ruby eyes glancing over the statue.
"Oh? What do you know of it?"
Gilbert looked down, if only for a second, seemingly unsure whether or not to continue. He gestured slightly to the man brandishing a club.
"Uh, well… he's Theseus, son of Aegeus, who was the King of Athens. He was invited to the wedding of his friend, Pirithoüs, and the goddess Hippodamia. Centaurs were also welcomed to the celebration - this guy, here -" Gilbert's pale finger led Roderich's gaze to the man-horse hybrid cowering under Theseus, "- he's a Centaur. Ah, the Centaurs were unruly and caused nothing but trouble. One of 'em must've been really hammered, and suggested that they attempt to kidnap the blushing bride. Theseus intervened with the kidnapping and taught the Centaurs a lesson. Talk about stealing the thunder!" His chuckle was soft, tinted with an emotion which Roderich could not identify.
"Yes. Thankfully he was not in attendance at Thor's wedding," The Austrian mumbled, intending to explore the building further, but Gilbert gently nudged him. "Was that an actual joke, Specs? Are you warming to the idea of camaraderie?" He laughed again, louder this time, and for the first time, despite the inevitable looks of derision from other spectators, Roderich did not mind the intrusive noise.
"Are you implying that I had no sense of humour?"
"No! Yes. But in my defence the opinion is well-justified. The only time you have smiled has been when insulting me, I have noticed."
Unwilling to respond to the observation, Roderich simply turned and made for the art gallery, following the directions and admiring the corridors, all of which were adorned with simple yet elegant ornaments and soothing tones. There were statues at every corner, large and small, of differing materials, all curling their bodies around the building's interior, splaying themselves onto the walls. Roderich was bewildered by how human they appeared. The figures were often plump, and wrinkled, and imperfect. However, if his art course had taught him anything so far, it was that imperfection could be beautiful.
By the time they had reached the central gallery, many of the tour groups had already been ushered through. Now, only a handful of visitors paced the collections with the expressions of experienced critics.
The artworks themselves were, of course, extraordinary. Indeed, Roderich's own work paled in comparison to these classic masterpieces, all of which had stood the test of time remarkably well.
Moving to the nearest painting on display, the brunette surveyed the scene: a Roman soldier, central, atop two fallen men, an angel to his right and a maiden his left. The angel presented him a crown, which, by his noble expression, he believed he deserved.
"'The Triumph of the Victory," Gilbert chimed. Again, Roderich's brow furrowed.
"Peter Paul Rubens. 1614, or thereabouts. Hercules looks pretty pleased with himself, don't you think?"
They passed another painting.
"I haven't seen this one in a while! Hugo van der Goes."
Looking at the two specimens in the painting, it was evident to Roderich who they were. "Adam and Eve."
Gilbert nodded. "He painted it in about...1460. No, 1470. Oh hey, look at this one…" He strolled off once more, drawn into the world of pastel colours, oils, chalks and frames.
Watching him peruse each work, eyes flitting gently to every painted face, Roderich was reminded of a child roaming a sweet shop. They continued on their course around the Museum, and as they did so, Gilbert's apparently childlike state only increased with every excited gesture he made, or every whine directed at Roderich because 'you're not paying attention!'.
"I am," Roderich assured the older, "but I am quite confuddled."
Both men stopped in the pillared corridor, in which they were currently the only wanderers.
Gilbert glanced again at the piece he had been in the middle of describing. "I can go through it again if -"
"Not that. I want to know why you know so much about the arts."
The albino's expression suddenly dropped into one of apprehension. A rare feeling of power surged through Roderich as he realised that now was an ideal time for interrogation. "There has been scarcely a piece in these rooms about which you were ignorant. Statues, paintings, even the style of architecture! For goodness' sake, you even started to inform me of this building's history."
Silence. Gilbert, who had previously been chewing his lip, opened his mouth. "Well to be fair this place has had a difficult past. In 1809 a lot of the collections in Vienna were stolen by Napoleon's troops -"
"Gilbert!"
"- had to be replaced with donations from the House of Habsburg. It's actually quite interesting because this Museum was erected in 1891 so -"
Grabbing his collar, Roderich let the anger swell inside his chest. This man shall play no more games with me!
"I have been restraining myself since we left the market-"
Gilbert smiled wryly under the brim of his hat. "I'm flattered -"
"-but now I am going to ask you questions and you will answer them if you know what is good for you. Now, who was the Russian man at the market?"
Gilbert's eyes flicked to one of the pillars close by. His jaw tightened. "Roderich -"
But the latter was becoming relentless. "Who was he? Why did he ask for your help? Just what are you involved with -"
There was rapid movement; something lunged from behind one of the pillars, a black blur, and Gilbert was twisting from the Austrian's grip, and he threw a punch, missed, a grunt, Roderich was pushed roughly, then hauled away from the blurred figure of Gilbert.
When the world was still again, Roderich realised that his back was against another body, a foreign body, and his arm was being clamped painfully behind his back.
There was a blade at his throat. Roderich's pulse moved at a lightening-fast gait, his veins popping from his skin. The warm metal dug into his jugular, tilting his head up, and all he could think was please spare me in a litany of panic.
He could just about see Gilbert, leaning on a nearby banister for support. His nose was bloody and his glare piercing, focused on Roderich's captor.
"Asshole," Spat the Berliner, staggering to his feet. "You move fast. One of his disciples, I take it."
"You must return." This man was Austrian; Roderich was thankful that at least the Russian had not decided to hunt them.
Gilbert shook his head in reply.
"I'll kill this one if you do not swear to return."
The Berliner licked his lips. "...Fine. I swear to return. Now let him go."
But the captor attuned to the shallow cadence of his voice, and suddenly the blade was pressed harder into Roderich's throat. He couldn't help it; he let out a choked sound.
He heard Gilbert curse.
"You owe him!" The stranger continued. "Just go back. You are no aristocrat; why flounce around dressed as one? This guy here will likely be killed anyway, no outsiders. He's heard too much."
"Then stop runnin' your mouth."
Another strain on Roderich's throat; another pathetic whimper. He wanted to fight back, but he hadn't the faintest idea how, and he could not afford any rash movements in his current position.
A desperate thought reached his mind. Gilbert, help me! He wished that he could project it into the other man's head.
"I'm going to count to three," Said the attacker. "If, by three, you have not earnestly agreed to return with me, I shall kill him. And then I shall kill you."
If the body mass were anything to judge by, Roderich reckoned that this man was not as muscled as the Russian, but still relatively lean. It would only take one second. One fell slash and I will be done. Oh God, Gilbert, do not leave me to die.
Roderich could no longer see Gilbert, but he heard the unmistakable sigh.
"One."
Silence, save for breathing. Roderich's throat ached. His mouth was dry, his hands cold with fear. The man had his free hand in Roderich's hair, craning his neck back by force.
"Two."
Beilschmidt!
Footsteps. Suddenly, he glimpsed Gilbert's top hat falling to the floor; the attacker's attention was diverted, and Gilbert moved in, outstretched hand grabbing that of the attacker, wrenching it, the knife fell and Gilbert caught it, using the forearm as a block. Taking a knee to the gut, Gilbert pushed Roderich aside with commendable strength; the stranger's other hand went for Gilbert's throat but he dodged, sprang up again, the knife handle being held backwards so that all he had to do was slash upwards and -
"Aaagh!" The man wailed as blood spurted from his chest; Gilbert gave him no time for retaliation, dropping the blade and pushing him back, both hands on his shoulders, back to the low banister -
"Gilbert, no!"
With a snarl, Gilbert Beilschmidt shoved the stranger over the edge - but he did not let him go. Instead, he held onto him by the lapels of his jacket. The wounded man struggled, but Gilbert pinned him with a glare. "Don't try anything. I can push you off before you could even blink. But I don't do that any more. So here's the deal: you're gonna be the messenger. You go back there and tell him to shove it, or I'll make sure the authorities know everything."
Even now, the stranger laughed. "You wouldn't dare -"
Gilbert pressed onto the man's injury. "I'll sing like a canary. Now fuck off." He threw him to the side, scouting the premises for accomplices. Though, Roderich decided, if there had been more, they would have also attacked. His pulse still raced.
Shocked, bleeding, humiliated, the stranger made his getaway.
Gilbert had his back to Roderich. Slowly, he went over and collected the knife, which he pocketed, and the hat, which he placed upon his mess of white hair. Knowing that the Berliner was armed, it compelled Roderich to see him in a new light. A terrifying light.
This man is a killer.
He stood there, away from the elder, whose face was fractured by crimson stains. The blood dripped onto the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip.
It seemed like an eternity before he did speak. It was with the softest tone. "If I were to answer your questions," He began, "it would endanger you. Potentially others, as well."
Roderich glowered at him. "I'm not bloody safe as it is, Gilbert! Just tell me." He took a tentative step closer. "You're not just a thief, are you?"
Gilbert's eyes met his. He looked hurt. "No one aspires to be a thief."
Adjusting his glasses, Roderich's pulse began to stumble. Tiredness wrapped its dampening tendrils around his muscles. He felt so exhausted. He went to take another step, but his knee buckled; Gilbert rushed forward, an arm around Roderich's waist to hold him up. "Come on, you need to rest."
Gingerly, the Austrian removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket and pressed it into Gilbert's pale, blood-smeared palm. "Wipe your nose. It is unsightly." Chuckling softly, the Berliner dabbed the scarlet trails from his lips and chin.
They moved towards the Museum exit, having spent a few moments recovering.
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The Vienna Academy of Fine Arts.
When they arrived back, it was almost sunset. Luckily, after they had changed clothes, they made it to dinner. Roderich sat at the table with the rest of the art students. The food was not only delicious, but well-prepared. He savoured every mouthful.
"You look tired, Edelstein," Elizaveta commented, giving him a disarming smile. He did his best to return it. "I...I am. I have had a long day, and I must begin my second piece tomorrow."
"I wish you well."
The words took him by surprise. "Th-thank you." His confusion must have shown, because the Hungarian giggled. "I can be a nice person, you know. Let's be friends. After all, if I can learn to tolerate Beilschmidt, you won't be any problem."
Roderich glanced across the table, where Gilbert sat eating his dinner sombrely. "Yes," Roderich faced her, and met her green gaze, "let's be friends."
He had no stomach for pudding that night. Every time he had swallowed, his throat had throbbed in memory of the harrowing attempt on his life. Roderich made attempts to socialise, but admittedly had had to make his excuses and leave for his dorm room. He was quite convinced that he would gain no sleep tonight.
As he ascended the stairs, he released a frustrated growl when he heard a second set of steps behind his own. There is only one person that could be.
"I am tired, Gilbert. Leave me in peace." A hand grabbed his sleeve. "Wait, Roderich."
Roderich shook him off and continued on to the dorm. He was stopped again outside his door. "What is it, Gilbert?" He snapped. Gilbert swallowed. "I...I think I can answer one question. But only one." He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, you wanted to know...why I know so much about the museum pieces."
Curious, the brunette gave a curt nod.
Shoulders drooping in defeat, the older man shifted his gaze as he elaborated. "The reason that I know so much about the arts is...that I was raised in a cultured family."
"What…?"
"I was taught all about relics and myths and artwork. I am from a Junker* family, Roderich."
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.
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"That doesn't make sense," Roderich breathed, backing up to the door.
"My family is the Beilschmidt family of Schönhausen Palace in southern Berlin. I was surprised that you didn't recognise the surname, actually, with you being part of the inner circle. I guess we're only known in Germany."
"You were on the street," Roderich continued. "Dressed in rags. Wandering around cafés looking for noblemen to pickpocket."
"When I left Germany, I wasn't a thief. I was the heir to the Beilschmidt name."
Still struggling to compute this unexpected information, the brunette placed a hand to his mouth. He forced himself to meet Gilbert's eyes. "Then why did you leave?"
Gilbert's eyes were chillingly emotionless. "I never liked labels."
"...And the men who found us today?"
The white-haired man refused the prompt, looking down. "They don't matter."
"They threatened to kill us -"
"I can take 'em." He let out a firm breath. "They probably know where I am." Roderich narrowed his violet eyes. "And by extension, where I am."
Gilbert only shrugged. "I warned them away. If they come here, I'll just have to leave."
Roderich had been skirting the issue, but now he felt he had worked out the truth. It is the only plausible inference. Men chasing after him, ordering him to return, all of this secretive business…. "You were in a cult, were you not?"
At this, Gilbert's eyes widened; he held his hands up in defence. "N-no! Not a cult. I really do not want to discuss this." But Roderich pressed on, certain that he would not be interrupted by another attacker. "A gang, than? Or a mob? You seem to detest everything under the law so maybe it was a vigilante group -"
Now, Gilbert shrank back. "That's not -"
"Then what?" Roderich blurted, flushed and irritated. An idea formed, a razor-edged jigsaw puzzle, and he wielded it as a weapon. "If you do not tell me everything in which you are involved, Gilbert Beilschmidt, I shall see to it that your parents are contacted and I am confident they will drag you back to Germany kicking and screaming."
The older man's gaze darkened. "You're making threats. That's adorable. You, a piglet whose life is controlled by his parents. Is that your plan, Princess? Tell mother and father to contact my own? Let me tell you something: the moment I left the palace I was disowned. My father would not bat an eyelid if he knew what I'd been up to, so by all means, inform them, but it will gain you no further information." The gravel in his voice belied the arrogance in his eyes. Roderich once again felt penalised for trying to use his parents' influence as leverage. Of course his attitude towards everything is egalitarian. He has no one but himself.
Gilbert had advanced during his little speech, hands either side of the Austrian's form, trapping him against the door. "Do you really need to know?" He whispered against Roderich's cheek. "Don't you know what curiosity did to the cat?"
Roderich was bothered, and weak. He wanted nothing more than to lie down. But the overwhelming urge to possess this answer overrode the remaining fatigue. He lifted his jaw, challenging the older male. "I do. Besides, one attempt has already been made upon my life. I deserve an answer in compensation."
A silver eyebrow rose. Pale lips turned up into a cocky sneer.
"Terrorist."
Roderich had pushed the key into the lock. He opened the door quickly, putting distance between himself and this white-haired mystery. I never knew him at all.
Gilbert followed Roderich into the room before he could slam the door. "But, I don't do that any more."
"A terrorist!" Roderich whispered, infuriated. "Why on Earth would you become a terrorist?"
To this, Gilbert provided no answer. There was little light in the room as the sun had long since given way to a pale navy sky; his face was heavily shadowed, except for those unusual eyes. Roderich shook his head in disbelief. "You are dangerous…." He murmured. "A terrorist…." His brow hardened behind his spectacles. "I'll have you thrown out of here. Everyone will know what you are!" He made for the entryway, but Gilbert stepped into his way. His face was marred by a domineering snarl.
"You aren't going anywhere. Tell no one."
"The central committee of this Academy will be told. Why would I condone the presence of a terrorist, in a place well-suited to the position of a target?"
Gilbert then seemed to adopt the mood of a wounded animal, the threatening tone leaving his voice. "I thought. I thought that we had become friends." The Austrian was taken aback. Friends? It was indeed possible that they had gotten to know each other slightly since their first encounter, but had they ever really gotten along?
A new wave of uncertainty washed over his skin. "We were acquaintances," He stated, "but friends we are not." Now most certainly.
Sadness was apparent on Gilbert's features, but it was soon replaced with desperation. "It was pure coincidence that you happened to offer me lodging in the Academy. It is no target and I am an ex-terrorist."
"The money you make working here would be nothing compared to the spoils of a planned heist," Roderich countered, keeping his voice low lest a passer-by hear them. The last thing he wanted was to cause unnecessary panic, but when it came to terrorists, he supposed, panic was justifiable. Terrorists killed people. Terrorists destroyed buildings and uprooted civilisation and fractured the lives of innocents.
Gilbert was shaking his head in denial. "No, Roderich, there is no heist."
"Then why are there terrorists after you, seeking your assistance?"
"I don't bloody know, there must be some kind of operation in progress!" The Berliner threw his arms up in frustration. "Look, I left them, alright? I left and they -" His eyes glinted with realisation. "They must have tracked me to Vienna."
Roderich folded his arms, allowing his emotions to simmer down in order to focus on what Gilbert had said. Can I trust anything that this man says? "How vital are you to their operation," He began, "if they are willing to hunt you down to attain your help?"
"I - I'm not vital. Not really. No, this doesn't make sense," Gilbert growled, muttering to himself. "Ivan just said that they need many men...they could not have been searching only for me. if that's the case, then, perhaps…"
"What, man?" Roderich exclaimed.
Gilbert looked at him, wary. "They are likely tracking someone. Someone very important. Someone who's Diamond Jubilee will be celebrated soon, here in Vienna."
The Austrian's gasp lodged in his throat. "They want the Emperor?"
The German gave a sharp nod. "More than that," He amended, "they probably want him dead."
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A/N: Ah, sweet exposition! More will of course be explained in the coming chapters.
Junker* is Prussian nobility.