Anonymous said: You dirty filthy rascal for Frain?
Bwuaha, I didn't end up including these words into the story, but I'm sure y'all don't mind.
"Haven't seen you in a while, bro!"
Gilbert doesn't lean against the counter. Everything felt grimy. He doesn't even want to be here, but he fished out the wallet from his pocket. Alfred tilted his head, arms crossed, easy and friendly.
"Thought you quit?" he asked, taking down Gilbert's favorite brand.
Gilbert shrugged. "So did I. Jesus, is a pack really nine bucks now?"
…
Gilbert cursed, leaned back from the table too fast and stumbled. He was drunk, but Antonio and Francis didn't seem to mind. Maybe they didn't even fucking care. Gilbert took another mouthful of warm beer, grimaced.
"Thought I had it," he muttered.
Francis laughed. He leaned against his pool cue, most of his weight on the wood. Francis and Antonio always did that, and Gilbert realized it must be bad for the cues. He had half a mind to tell them off for it, but he just cracked open another beer.
"You don't have the magic French fingers." Francis smiled and wiggled his fingers.
Francis swaggered over to the table, leaned over, adjusted the cue. Antonio grinned, and Gilbert thought Antonio was staring at Francis' ass.
"Don't fuck up," Gilbert muttered.
Antonio glanced over at him. "Don't be grumpy you're off your game tonight! Maybe Francis and me can catch up to your, ah, winning streak, no?" He took another sip from his drink. It was bright and colorful, and probably tasted better than Gilbert's beer. "Which pocket did he call?"
"I wasn't listening."
Antonio snickered. "Cheer up!"
The pool ball sailed easily into the pocket. Antonio clapped; only because he was winning. Usually, he was muttering under his breath in Spanish. Now, though—Gilbert gritted his teeth. Maybe Antonio was just happy for Francis. Maybe he was only clapping—
"What are you doing?"
Gilbert blinked and looked at Francis, then crossed his eyes to get a better look at the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looked at Francis and squared his shoulders. Francis' mouth twisted into a frown, and Gilbert had to look away.
"We quit together."
That made Gilbert's eyes snap back to Francis'. "I wanted a few."
"It's never a few," Francis insisted. "We were all doing so well. How many months has it been? At least three. Antonio, was it—"
"It was almost four, I think."
They stood in the relative silence of the bar, and Gilbert felt like he had a target painted on his face. He glowered, took another puff, and crushed the cigarette under his boot. He raised an arm into the air, smiling savagely.
"There is everyone happy? We ruined my fun, so can we continue with the fucking pool game? Please? Francis, go." Gilbert saw them exchange glances, and he stepped forward. "Go!"
Francis' mouth twisted. "I'm suddenly not in the mood."
Antonio nodded, once, slowly, then again, with more conviction. "We should let someone else have the pool table. Just for now." He tried for a smile. "Do you really want to lose? Officially?" He laughed, but it petered out.
Gilbert didn't fucking care. He tossed his cue onto the table and marched over to the bar. Antonio followed closely at his heel, apologizing to people Gilbert bumped in to. Gilbert realized they must know he knows. After all, why would Antonio try to avoid conflict?
Gilbert collapsed onto a bar stool. The bartender brought over raised an eyebrow, and Gilbert ordered something stronger than shitty beer. He gulped it down when it arrived, ordered another one. Before he knew what he was doing, another cigarette was back in his mouth.
The stool wobbled.
Antonio sat on one side, Francis the other. They ordered their own drinks, and an uneasy silence settled on them. Gilbert watched the smoke float past his nose, blew a smoke ring or two.
His chair wobbled, again. Gilbert seethed.
"Do you know," he said, savoring the words like the smoke in his mouth, "what I like about barstools?"
The other two didn't answer.
"I like that they have three legs." Gilbert glanced at Francis, at Antonio. "Not too many, not four, but enough to be practical. Three; it's a good number. But what happens when two of those legs start fucking each other, and then expect the third leg not to figure it out?"
Antonio was looking at his drink. Only Francis was looking evenly at Gilbert, face passive. God, Gilbert wanted to fucking rip at his hair, make the Frenchman act like something mattered. He was always so fucking calm and cool, and Gilbert glared at him.
Francis' shoulders moved, slightly. "You're welcome to join us."
"Don't be cute," Gilbert snapped.
Suddenly, the room seemed much too hot. Gilbert shoved himself away from the bar and marched across the floor. He slammed into a guy, and he shoved the kid out of his way, snarling. A guy in a scarf raised an eyebrow.
"Someone spit in your drink?" the scarf man asked.
Gilbert hissed. "Fuck off!"
The air outside was just as balmy, but Gilbert felt like he could breathe out here. He felt sweat start to form on his neck, and he pulled out another cigarette, lit it. He had a coughing fit, and paced, working out the phlegm. Moths fluttered around the streetlamps.
Antonio and Francis watched him. Gilbert couldn't deal with them, and he just paced, back and forth, back and forth, working through his pack, trying to fucking calm down. But he couldn't.
The two of them sat on the curb.
Gilbert came to the end of his pack. When the last cigarette burned to his lips, he whirled to face them.
"What the fuck you guys?"
Antonio glanced up—a wounded dog. "We thought… it might be… better if you—"
"When did the hell did the three of us—" Gilbert struggled, and he heard his voice becoming raspy. "When did it become the two of you? What happened to the Three Amigos? The fucking Trio? What—" His voice cracked.
Gilbert was glad he couldn't see Francis' face in the dark.
Francis stood. "It is still the three of us."
Gilbert had started shaking his head halfway through the sentence. "No, no, no, look, you two are already making plans and agreeing on things! Why didn't you just tell me?"
"Because we thought you would react like this." Antonio's voice was surprisingly clipped, and that hurt worse than if Gilbert could see Francis' face. "Stop yelling, please," he added, softer.
"I'm not yelling!" Gilbert's hands fumbled through his pockets. "I'm only reacting like this because you didn't tell me!"
Francis crossed his arms; Gilbert could see his silhouette shifting against the light pouring out of the bar. "You had no idea?" Francis' voice was quick, heavily accented. "Not a clue?"
"It doesn't matter!" Gilbert couldn't breathe. "You didn't tell me! You didn't tell me! I found out through fucking Arthur of all people, and the look he gave me—like I was an idiot!"
Gilbert tried to catch his breath, and he stood there in the parking lot, the dark parking lot, face hot and fingers shaking and he could feel himself wanting to cough, facing his best friends who were probably looking at him like he was overreacting.
It was quiet, and he suddenly didn't want to break the silence, interrupt the crickets.
"It's the three of us," Gilbert whispered. "But now it's the two of you and me. And that makes for a shitty fucking barstool."