A/N: Prepare for a history lesson.

Both men had not spoken in a week.

For that, Roderich was grateful. His nerves and his mind could take no more shattering revelations, not at the moment.

He had thrown himself into his artwork, grateful for the escape and tranquility that it brought him. He had also been spending more time with Elizaveta; they often painted together, sharing a companionable silence as they worked on their individual pieces. It was rare that they exchanged lengthy conversations, but when they did, Roderich never found it tiresome as was his usual attitude to social convention.

However, the issue of Gilbert always lingered in the back of Roderich's mind: a virus, slowly infecting his brain and concentration. Even now, as he sketched his design onto the canvas paper, he had to forcibly block out the image of the Berliner's face as he had whispered, "terrorist".

His pencil stilled; he sighed.

Nearby, he heard Elizaveta's voice. "Are you alright?" The question vexed him. He merely breathed out, so what had prompted her to ask?

Turning to face her, the Austrian nodded once. "I am well. Do I not appear so?"

"No, you seem - fine. But that is the fifth time you have paused and sighed in the last half hour. Even for a budding artist, that is a lot of contemplation," She smiled softly. "Which leads me to the conclusion that something is distracting you."

"Insightful."

"Mm. Well, I am a woman. For all we are taught to hide our emotions, we certainly do learn to recognise those of others quite clearly." She placed her paintbrush on the easel and wiped her paint-splattered hands on her apron briefly. "Are you unsatisfied with your work so far?" She glanced over his art foundations. "Not bad."

Roderich raised an eyebrow. "As per the attitude of an artist, yes. Admittedly the problem at hand is rather more significant."

"Oh? Family issues?"

He blinked, surprised by the estimate. Why on Earth would she jump to the conclusion that my family gives me cause for concern? "No." Roderich had been exchanging letters with his parents every couple of weeks since his arrival. The postal service, he had been gruntled to discover, was incredibly efficient in Vienna. Neither he nor his parents appeared to have anything particularly interesting to document; the most he could consistently write was that 'I completed another additional art piece today' because strangely enough that was the most one could do when one attended an arts academy. According to his parents, the most that had happened was that one of the maids at the Manor had had to resign due to pregnancy.

Of course, many a time had he contemplated telling his parents about Gilbert, about who he was and, more importantly, with whom he was involved. Yet each time, he thought back to Gilbert's patronising words. If he told his parents, then he would be the very same spoiled, dependent, powerless young man that Gilbert had suggested he were.

This was to be a battle he would have to win alone.

Roderich shook his head to clear the thoughts. "It is nothing."
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Naturally, for his identity piece, he had chosen to draw the grand piano. It was simple, black and white; a vessel for music.

It was him.

He sat patiently upon the stage, sketchbook in hand, resting against his knee for support. Today he had decided to focus on drawing the keys of the piano - another shading exercise if nothing else. It was early afternoon and he only had another 20 minutes; according to the class schedule, this room would be occupied soon.

Roderich listened to the sound of his graphite pencil grate colour onto the paper. Keys were unusually difficult to draw, mainly due to the reflections and angles. Once he had gotten a decent grasp on how the process of creating artwork was done, (finding inspiration, sketching several designs of said inspiration, then choosing an ideal design before perfecting and finalising it) Roderich was able to simply wile the hours away. It was an opportunity to establish a personal universe.

The door to the room opened.

Turning around, the Austrian found himself faced with Professor Kierwald once again. He felt his universe fracture and implode. Fantastic. "Professor Kierwald," He began, returning to his shading, "how nice to see you." He hoped that the ice in his voice was not too conspicuous.

Evidently not, as Kierwald halted just before the raised stage. "You are fond of this piano," He stated. "We do have others."

"...Is this a veiled request for me to leave, sir?" At this, Kierwald's gaze raced down to meet Roderich's. "Not at all; I merely wondered what drew you to this one in particular."

"Well, it…" It was the one Gilbert found, and I am inexplicably drawn to him, too. "It reminds me of the one I have in my chambers at home."

Kierwald's eyebrows shot up. "A piano in your chambers? My, how lucky you are. " He offered a smile, but it bore no friendliness. Roderich grew more uncomfortable in his presence with every passing second. He began to gather his equipment, standing ungracefully. "Y- yes. I realise that this room is booked for the next hour," he gestured to the clock, despite the time clearly stating that he had another ten minutes. "I must be off."

The professor stepped in front of him. "One moment, please. I wish to ask you something." Roderich forced himself to keep calm, which was significantly easier to do, given that he had of late been in worse situations.

"Of course. What is it, Professor?"

Kierwald tightened his jaw. "How well do you know Herrn Beilschmidt?"

The question caught him unexpectedly; Roderich faltered through an answer. "B-Beilschmidt? Ah, he is a recently hired caretaker here, is he not? I have only spoken with him a few times; really I know nothing about him." Professor Kierwald blinked, and the younger man could tell that he was unconvinced.

"Is that so." Kierwald folded his hands before his abdomen, his dark robes pleating neatly. "Only, from what I hear, you both have been spending much time together."

Now, it was Roderich's turn to be sceptical. "From whom did you receive such twaddle? Who exactly sources the gossip of this Academy?" Kierwald exhaled slowly, the bags under his eyes seeming to deepen. "It would be unwise to commit perjury, Herr Edelstein. Just last week, both yourself and Herr Beilschmidt entered Academy grounds in late evening, and both of you appeared rather dishevelled. What, pray tell, was the occasion?"

Holding his sketchbook close to his chest as if it were a shield, Roderich swallowed. Here is my chance to confess. I could tell him about Gilbert, and ensure that he is dealt with by the police. I could land him in jail, or worse. The power was completely with him. If he exposed Gilbert now, he would win; he would use his own influence to punish him without his parents' assistance.

Except that he could not confess the truth. His tongue would not form the words which he knew should be spoken. Because Roderich knew that exposing Gilbert would not just warrant a jail sentence; if Gilbert really was - or had been - a terrorist, then regardless of his supposed Junker heritage, he would be hung for high treason. Most likely, he would also be tortured beforehand in order for him to name his accomplices.

Roderich relished knowing that he could, at this moment, sign Gilbert's death warrant if he so wished, but he knew that he would not survive being responsible for someone's death. The guilt would haunt him forever, even if the victim had been a terrorist.

Right now the Austrian began to resent the Berliner, for Gilbert could afford to be ignorant of how his actions may affect Roderich, but the reverse was most certainly not the case. And so, Roderich Edelstein continued to lie. "I bumped into him whilst exploring Vienna. It appeared that he had fallen victim to a mugging, therefore I saw fit to bring him back to the Academy."

"I see." Kierwald finally appeared to relax. "It appears you are a very generous person. Good day, Herr Edelstein."

The brunette had already reached the double doors, anxious to leave. "Good day, Professor."

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It was only after he had shut his dorm room behind him, that Roderich felt a sweeping wave of unease which made him hesitate. His brows furrowed.

Nobody had seen him and Gilbert enter the Academy that evening; all had been in their respective lessons. Even the receptionists had not been present. He remembered that clearly because he had been relieved for no one to see them in such a state. Neither Roderich nor Gilbert had told anyone about what happened that day. At least, Roderich assumed that Gilbert had remained silent, particularly as he now knew there were people after him.

There would have been no way for Professor Kierwald to obtain that information, not unless...

Letting out a gasp, Roderich abandoned his things on his bed, racing out of his room. He passed other Academy-attendees, and peered into every classroom he saw, hoping to glimpse the albino.

He had no such luck, and was beginning to panic, when he eventually recognised a white head of hair down one of the hallways. Gilbert was aiding some other caretakers to move large paintings. Adjusting his spectacles, Roderich tidied his dandy shirt before approaching the older man, who was presently carrying one end of a massive watercolour piece. "Gilbert, I need to talk to you."

Noting the glances from the other assistants, Gilbert raised one eyebrow as they transported the artwork. "Now, you want to speak to me now?" 'After one week of silence?' Roderich could see the subtle incredulity of the question. "Yes - Professor Bonnefoy asked me to remind you that he requested you as a model for the still-life drawing class today." At this comment, some of the other men shared suspecting looks. Apparently Bonnefoy had a reputation for focusing on male models, which, given what Roderich had witnessed of the man's behaviour, was unsurprising.

Roderich followed the men as they carried several paintings into an Academy storage room. The paintings were stored appropriately, before Gilbert left with the Austrian.

"That better have been a bluff," He commented idly, "I don't feel like stripping for a class today. I'm bloated."

Tugging on his sleeve, Roderich pulled him into an empty room, shutting the door firmly. "I just spoke to Professor Kierwald."

"The condescending music teacher? God, I can't stand that man."

"Yes, him. Have you spoken to him this week, at all?" Gilbert shrugged a shoulder. "Maybe, once, about how to store music stands or something. Why?"

Roderich gave him a meaningful look. "But you have not mentioned anything to him about that day last week, correct?" Now Gilbert seemed wary. "No; why would I? And why are you so talkative all of a sudden?"

"Because Kierwald knows that we came back to the Academy late that day in a mess. He just questioned me about whether or not I know you well. He could not have seen us, there was no one around - and -"

"Hang on, he might have glimpsed us from a window or something."

"Really? During a lesson? Must you be in denial?" It took Gilbert a few seconds to work out Roderich's deduction, arms folded. "You think he's a spy?"

Roderich sighed exasperatedly. "I do not know, but how else could he know what we looked like when we returned if he did not have other sources of information? I understand this is rather far-fetched, but… I mean, he asked me why we appeared dishevelled and -"

Gilbert's head snapped up. "And what did you say?" There was a burst of apprehension in his ruby eyes. Again, Roderich enjoyed this position of power. He met his eyes. "I told him nothing important. I lied. He seemed to believe me but -"

Warm arms embraced him. Roderich's chin suddenly met Gilbert's shoulder, his arms trapped awkwardly between their chests as he was hugged.

Gilbert's voice was soft. "Thank you."

Roderich felt compelled to demand what for, but he already knew why. Whether or not he liked it, he had decided to protect Gilbert Beilschmidt, terrorist or not.

Almost imperceptibly, his arms loosely flanked Gilbert's sides.

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"Can you please reach a water jar for me?"

Smirking, Elizaveta stood on her tiptoes and brought down an empty jam jar from the shelf. She handed it to Roderich, who was trying his hardest not to blush. "Perhaps you should ask Beilschmidt for a stepladder."

The Austrian's cheeks went crimson. "Thank you. And that will not be necessary." Another student passed them: a blonde Pole called Felix. "Why, are you still awaiting a growth spurt?"

"Hilarious." Roderich stomped to the sink to fill the jar with water.

Elizaveta and Felix watched on, amused. "He cannot take a joke, can he?" Felix whispered. The Hungarian scoffed and whispered back, "His pride is too delicate. He and Beilschmidt could be twins, they are so similar."

"Beilschmidt...is he that guy who tried to burn down this Academy?"

"No. No, that was Roderich. By accident, of course. Although you could say that they are-"

"Argh!" Roderich recoiled as the tap spewed water all over him; the jar dropped to the floor and smashed loudly.

"- partners in crime," She finished. Felix burst out laughing, accompanied by the chuckles of a few others. A few students rushed over to help clear up the mess; Roderich, his shirt soaking and his dignity bruised, swiftly removed his spectacles before breezing out of the room.

"Roderich!" Elizaveta scolded as she followed him, "Do not make others have to clear up the mess you made."

"I did not make it; the tap is faulty!" He snapped, producing a tissue from his sleeve which he used to dry his face.

"You smashed the jar."
"No, I dropped it, it was simply an accident -"

"Must you constantly avoid responsibility? It is pathetic." Her last word stung him. The hot, bitter feeling of humiliation crept up his spine once more, but he did not turn to face her, instead accelerating his pace out into the corridor. He would need to change clothes before he developed hypothermia; seeing as he had always been prone to contracting ailments quickly, he by no means wished to tempt them.

Elizaveta's steps slowed. "Wait, Roderich - I'm sorry."

Roderich had reached the stairs, and only now did he glance back at her. "It was an accident," He reiterated.

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Roderich had always been taught by his father that professionalism was the most important social skill one could possess. Herr Edelstein, who had made his fortunes via the close trading market that Austria had with Germany, was well within his rights to preach such a statement. After all, it was diplomacy and co-operation which ensured the laws under which supplies were imported and exported, was it not? One could hardly sign a business deal after first behaving like a spoilt child. Therefore, Roderich had always attempted to approach any situation that faced him with objective professionalism.

The difficult part was maintaining said professionalism.

He had heard something.

Passing by the men's bathroom, he had heard something. Taking a few paces back, he stopped directly outside the main door.

There were moans and gasps emanating from within that room - muffled, as if slightly restrained, but most definitely sounds of a sexual nature.

Roderich blinked, his fingers tightening around his wireframes. The last time he had eavesdropped he had heard much the same - the shadowy image of Bonnefoy and Williams briefly entered his head - but this time it sounded like a woman and a man.

He remained there, alone, wondering why he was allowing himself to once again witness this lewd behaviour. It should really have surprised him that there was so much indecent activity happening at the Academy, but apparently he was becoming somewhat desensitised to it now, as his only reaction was an eye-roll. The sounds suddenly grew louder, and harsher, both husked voices reaching a mutual crescendo, before the interior fell silent.

The brunette heard a distinctly feminine giggle, and the rustling of clothing, and before he realised that he should be making a hasty retreat the door opened.

The scent of body odour caused his nose to wrinkle, and his eyes met those of a hastily-dressed young woman. Neither spoke. He noticed that her short bob was adorned with a skewiff yellow ribbon, and that her breasts were embarrassingly visible. She in turn probably noticed his current wet attire. Immediately he averted his eyes; he heard her give a high-pitched "oh my lord" before scarpering. Roderich felt the urge to shout an apology, but he decided that it would perhaps be the incorrect course of action.

There: professionalism.

The bathroom door was still open, though, and unfortunately Roderich could see who stood inside, combing his tousled hair through with pale, long fingers. The other man finally saw him, and smiled. "Oh, hey, Specs."

Roderich felt as if his stomach had fallen to the floor. He recalled why it became so difficult to keep composure around Gilbert Beilschmidt, and every ounce of his professionalism floated away. "What the devil were you doing?" He hissed, daring to step towards Gilbert, who, presently, was tightening the drawstrings of his shirt collar. "Uh, I think you mean who."
"This is an Academy of Fine Arts, not a brothel!"

Gilbert's jaw dropped. "Wh - that is offensive to her! I can't blame her for wanting sex with me and you shouldn't, either!"

Unable to understand the statement, Roderich simply placed his hands upon his hips. "Who proceeds to risk their job for one sexual encounter?"

Gilbert pressed his lips together momentarily in disbelief. "Everyone," He supplied. "And it's encounters; there's a few more where she came from."

"They paid you handsomely, then." At this, the Berliner barked a laugh. "See, I get that you have something against hookers and gigolos, but honestly, most of them are nice people. That, a few minutes ago, was just a fling."

"Do you even know her name?"

The older man paused to think. "Um...Bethany - no, Bella - or...Something beginning with a 'B'. She was one of the students in the still-life drawing classes and evidently she liked what she saw. My five meters can seduce anyone." He wiggled a silver eyebrow.

Roderich gave him a withering look.

"You're wet."

"Ex- excuse me?" The Austrian stuttered, much to the older's amusement. "Your clothes," He specified.

"A- ah. A tap broke. This Academy's plumbing detests me."

"I know how it feels."

Roderich ignored the jibe. "Should you not be on your way? Apparently people are spying on us, now. If that is indeed the case, then I pity that half-naked woman who just fled from here."

"Aw, you're just flustered because it's your first time seeing a pair or tits," Satisfied with his state of dress, moved towards the doorway. "Do not say such things." Roderich was beginning to shiver under his thin, damp shirt. Gilbert stopped at his shoulder. "You need to get laid, Specs."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sex. You need sex."

"No, I need dry clothes." Gilbert's body was close to his own; Roderich could feel the warmth from it. Hell, he could practically sense the adrenaline and testosterone circulating Gilbert's system. A hand landed on the shorter man's shoulder, causing him to jump. "You really are tense, Priss."

"Edelstein," The Austrian corrected. "And it is because I am cold. Saying that, these couple of weeks have held many a stressful experience, so tension is inevitable."

Gilbert's smirking face was inches from Roderich's own. "Sure. It relieves stress, you know."

"The cold?" Ruby irises darted downwards before meeting the brunette's gaze again. "No, not the cold."

"Hello?" A new voice turned both their heads; Diedrich stood before them, head tilted in confusion.

Much to Roderich's relief, Gilbert stepped back, throwing the newcomer a brilliant grin. "Hey."

"Diedrich," Roderich began, "Gilbert and I were just…" Damn, he thought as his mind went blank, why must I be incapable of lying right now, of all times!

"...discussing how bad this building's pipes are," Gilbert finished casually. "There must be too much pressure in them; there are leaks everywhere. One of these taps just broke, actually. Better report it to the head committee." He strode out of the room. Diedrich let him pass, but to Roderich he seemed oddly uncertain."So, which tap was it?" The taller man asked.

"I - I cannot remember," Roderich hurriedly answered, "but be careful nonetheless. I have to go." He, too, exited the room. Standing in the centre of the room, Dietrich sniffed the air. "It smells like sex in here," He murmured to himself, moving towards the basins. He checked all of the taps; none of them appeared to be broken. His eyes flickered back to the doorway through which both men had rushed, narrowing in suspicion.

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"Ah, Herr Edelstein, there you are," Mr Williams smiled gently, having intercepted Roderich outside his classroom. "Yes, Mr Williams?" The Canadian appeared rather unsettled. A letter was handed to him. "Reception requested that this letter be given to you. It arrived earlier today."

The envelope was a dirty brown colour; there was no stamp on it. Indeed, there stood his name, in shaky handwriting. Roderich had no idea from whom this could be. "Thank you, sir."

As Williams departed, Roderich faced the wall outside the classroom, clutching the letter between his thumbs and forefingers. Hastily, he ripped it open and unfolded the equally scrappy paper inside.

Only he could not understand a word of it; it appeared to be written in the Cyrillic alphabet.

Beneath the brief paragraph, there was a seal of some kind: a circle, with more writing around it, inside which a hand held a flag with a skull and crossbones on it. Roderich doubted that it came from pirates.

His heart filled with dread. Could this be what I think it is? He spun, racing back upstairs, practically sliding down corridors until he reached the dorm room opposite his own, rapping his knuckles on the door.

Within seconds, Gilbert appeared, having combed his hair to an acceptable standard, a confused expression on his face. Roderich said nothing, but instead held the open letter before him. The German's white eyebrows knitted together.

The Austrian stepped past him into the room, closing it behind him.

"...Come in."

Gilbert's room was identical to his; save for more clutter. How a person with less belongings than he could make more of a pigsty out of his room was a mystery to Roderich, who promptly seated himself on the chair by the desk. "Well?" Sighing, Gilbert rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. "Well, it's definitely from them."

"...I had worked that out already," Came the heated retort, "I do not know many Slavic people, Beilschmidt. Can you read it?" Giving Roderich a restrained look of anger, the Berliner leaned on the wardrobe, arms crossed behind his head. He nodded.

"What does it say?" Asked Roderich, handing the letter over once Gilbert gestured for it.

After skimming over it, Gilbert translated, "'Dear Mr Edelstein, it is most obvious that you have never before engaged with an organisation beyond the law. For your sake, it is better to keep it that way. Beilschmidt would do well to keep his distance, otherwise the both of you may just wind up dead. We will know if you involve the Austrian authorities.' The after note is -'P.S. Eisenstadt is a beautiful area. The Edelstein Manor is particularly stunning.'"

Roderich's heart was pounding; he felt lightheaded. Clearly, he was being blackmailed into silence."Oh, God. I never gave anyone my name, Gilbert, yet these people know where I live! Where my parents live!" He slammed a fist onto the desk. "What language is it, Russian?"

"Serbian."

The answer made Roderich hesitate; he was not politically active himself, but he was vaguely aware of the Austro-Serbian conflict that had been building up for a few years now, due to his father's anti-Serbian tangents whenever the topic was broached. "What on Earth are those Serbs playing at," He would yell whilst reading the newspaper, "they are owned by the Hapsburg Empire now. They had best calm themselves before we go to war." Roderich did not know the intricacies of the feud, but he understood that receiving a letter from Serbs most likely indicated forthcoming misfortune. "How come you can read Serbian, Gilbert?" He may as well buy a shovel if he was going to start digging his grave.

"And whose symbol is this? I have never come across it before."

Chewing his lip, Gilbert looked at his feet. His voice became barely audible. "...I learned Serbian, when I was part of a vigilante terrorist organisation. It is called the Black Hand."

Ah. That name rang a bell. Roderich had heard of this group before; they had appeared in the national newspapers many times in recent years, suspected of assassinating several important Austrian political and monarchical figures. Herr Edelstein had mentioned that the Black Hand had claimed responsibility for the deaths of Serbian royalty King Alexander Obrenović and Queen Draga in 1903, due to the family's alliance with Austria-Hungary. "Heavens above…You were part of the Black Hand?" It was more an exclamation than a question, therefore Gilbert did not answer.

Then it was the Black Hand who sought the death of Emperor Franz Joseph. "But why might the organisation want the Emperor dead?"

Gilbert made a face. "Come, now, you must know that the Black Hand hates the Habsburg Empire, and anyone allied with them. They want a free Serbia, with no restraints from Austria-Hungary nor Turkey." At Roderich's puzzled expression, he elaborated, "The Habsburgs and Ottomans have been restricting the rights of the Serbians for a while, now. They've had to be careful lest they antagonise Russia, Serbia's ally, but at the same time, both monarchies know that if they release the Serbians, there will be an uprising. That's why they put up with terrorist groups like the Black Hand. It's not just Serbs, though; Greeks, Bulgarians, Poles, Russians...the Black Hand can't be too discriminatory about who it recruits now. Especially if their operations are this serious."

"They need all the men they can get…" Roderich concluded, a headache starting to swell behind his temples. "You seem to be very well-read on this subject."

"Can't exactly join a terrorist organisation without learning the politics behind it," Came the deadpan reply. "Now, we have to dispose of this letter. Nobody else had read it, right?"

"Of course not. Alright, so we should set it on fire -"

Gilbert tore up the letter, and shoved it his mouth, piece by shredded piece.

"Why are you eating it?" The brunette demanded. The German spoke around the paper he was chewing. "No fire 'ere - faster." He swallowed the remaining scraps with a sound of disgust. "Tastes like moth-eaten slippers."

Resting his head in his palm, the Austrian noticed several pieces of plain paper lying upon the desk. Each one had a pencil sketch of someone from the Academy upon it. He recognised two drawings near to him. Elizaveta and Mr Williams. "I had no idea you liked to draw," He commented. Picking up another, he saw Professor Bonnefoy's shaded face. "You drew Bonnefoy?"

"Hey - I might not like the guy, but he's a looker."

A familiar face caught Roderich's eye; he shuffled the papers around, and lifted out one with his own portrait on it. Turning to look at Gilbert, Roderich glimpsed the slightest blush behind those white locks, but the German only shrugged a shoulder. "What, have you been stunned into silence by my masterpieces?" Quirking a dark eyebrow, the Austrian leant back in the chair, the picture still in his hands. "They are not very good." Gilbert feigned being shot in the heart, but recovered quickly. "You recognised who they were, though. By the way, have you ever even used a comb? Your hair is so untidy. Especially that annoying cowlick."

"The pot calling the kettle black."

The older man laughed, "Don't pretend that you have never seen a hypocrite before - there must be mirrors in that manor of yours."

Roderich chuckled, setting the paper down. It wasn't too bad a likeness, if he had to admit. He savoured this simple banter, because regardless whether or not he was involved in the political house of cards, it was most likely going to tumble soon.

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