The Things We Carry

Roderich opens the door for her like any gentleman would do, and Elizaveta tries not to seem ungrateful for the gesture as she steps into the foyer of his home. He's silent as he removes his coat and scarf, placing them in the coat closet before staring down the hall without so much as an explanation. She stands, watching him with tired but curious eyes as his rigid form turns down a corridor. It could have been her imagination, but she could have sworn she saw his hands fidgeting at his sides.

Shrugging, Elizaveta does the same with her coat, placing it on the nearest hanger before closing the closet door. The house is quite large for one person, but she expects nothing less from such a famous pianist. Oh how her mother would have loved to have him in the family. Poised, well-mannered, intelligent, Roderich was and is everything a proper 'man' should be…and everything she wanted to get away from. This life, the world that the aristocratic Austrian lives in was not a world that she loved. It is too predictable, too rigid and high-strung with not enough variety. But for Roderich, this is how life is supposed to be. And that's fine for him, but for Elizaveta, well, as she walks along the hallway, fingers tracing and dancing over a mahogany wood stand showcasing a vase and trinkets from the almost every region of the globe; this world is too simple.

When she finally enters the parlor, with it's marble flooring and expensive sofa and plush cushions, Roderich's back is to her as he faces a bay window. One hand is causally tucked in his pocket, while the other she can't quite see. The reason for that becomes apparent once Elizaveta gets a bit closer and wrinkles her nose at the familiar but off-putting smell.

"…When did you start smoking?" she asks, maybe just to feign casual conversation or out of general curiosity. She isn't quite which sure as she takes a half step forward.

"When you left," he replies, and not even all his proud composure can keep the bitterness in Roderich's voice from stinging Elizaveta's ears. He doesn't even turn to face her, but his arm moves a bit and she can just barely catch his reflection through the glass as the cigarette is brought to his lips again.

Elizaveta looks away for a moment, eyes darting down at the bitterness in his reply. It isn't an expected one and, admittedly, she feels a bit guilty for having caused such a bad habit. That is, until the events of their break replay in her mind and green eyes shoot up. She scoffs at him, crossing her arms. "Don't blame that off on me. I didn't think you'd mind," she says, her tone low and cool, "considering you couldn't even manage a civil conversation at that point."

"I couldn't?" Roderich says incredulously, finally looking at her. "And I suppose letting your brother break the news that my fiancée had no interest in marriage was a decent and considerate thing to do."

Her voice rises defensively. "I couldn't even talk to you!"

"You could have tried!"

"I did!"

"Well then you could have tried harder!"

Elizaveta huffs angrily and turns on her heels to leave. "I can't. I'm not doing this with you right now, Roderich."

"Of course you're not." His voice holds a bit of contempt as he walks around. Roderich makes the last drag of his cigarette an incredibly long one before he places it in an intricate ashtray that sits on a stand by the piano. "I must say though, you keep interesting company these days."

Elizaveta isn't sure if he's being sarcastic or not. He digs in his pocket for a moment, retrieving another cigarette. For such a terrible habit, he does it with a surprising amount of grace. Roderich blows out a puff of smoke that stream into the air and feathers away. For that moment it's all she can concentrate on until he speaks again. "I doubt Gilbert would approve."

She raises a brow at him before sucking air through her teeth indignantly. "Don't pretend like you care about him."

"I'm not," he says plainly in his normal tone, though it contradicts greatly with his present activities. "The statement is more for you than him. You know where I stand with Gilbert, and I haven't changed my opinion of him. But since this is who you're choosing to be with, I think it only fair to remain faithful in the process."

"He's just a friend."

"A very close one, indeed."

"It's not like that!"

Roderich doesn't have a ready response but his stare makes her uncomfortable so she sighs and tries again, trying not to give too much away. "He's Gils friend and he's helping me help him."

The Austrian nods and stubs out the remainder of his cigarette. "You don't own me an explanation, Eliza. I'm only offering advice. Your parents are worried, I'm worried about you."

"I can take care of myself, Roderich. You don't have to worry about me."

"That won't make me worry less."

Elizaveta doesn't have a reply to that. She can't fault him for caring or for being a friend. In truth, she is a bit worried about herself, but what else is there to be done? "Try…" she says distantly, looking away from him toward the parlor door.

"I will," Roderich says and walks toward the same door. "If you help me do so by promising not to be reckless." The Hungarian grunts sarcastically but before she can say something, the man opens the door for her and continues. "I'm going to make tea, would you like a cup?"

"What, you don't have someone here to make it for you?" And the comment is in light jest given the previous conversation and Roderich seems to understand this as a something of a smirk graces his face.

"She's off today. I have torte prepared as well, if you want that too." Roderich waits for her to meet him at the door and they walk toward the kitchen area as Elizaveta acquiesces.

Elizaveta stays the night and Roderich manages to sneak her to Gilbert's apartment in the early hours of the morning. He bids her a reluctant goodbye and she stands in front of the apartment door, wearily and hesitant. She opens the door to the single room with its tiny windows and noisy air conditioner. The place looks the same, not a table overturned or a magazine out of place. It's an odd sight, eerily even, considering all that had happened here. Elizaveta stands still, back resting against the front door and just stares. The police were here, even if it didn't look like it. They did a hell of a clean up job after the inspection. Her eyes dance over objects, from the small coffee table that sits amidst a sofa and two chairs to the TV hanging on the wall in front of it, and the two end tables that she'd picked out for Gilbert. Even though it is early, the apartment is still eerily quiet without the albino present to make noise. There would be breakfast going by now, something with eggs because he knows she likes eggs. The nutty, buttery scent of fresh coffee being brewed was absent. On a normal day, Gilbert having already had a cup by the time she woke. He was an early riser, and every day, he'd had a cup and sit on the window seat in the corner of the living room.

Absentmindedly, Elizaveta's feet carry her there. She runs her fingers along the seal, gazing out at the brick building and fire escape of the neighboring apartment complex. She never understood why he loved to sit and stare out of this window. There is nothing to see, just bricks and the winding iron of stairs. Oh but Gilbert would sit and stare for a least an hour, a solemn expression on his face with a coffee mug to his lips. Elizaveta tried it once, bringing coffee here but she never saw what he saw or felt whatever inspiration came from sipping coffee and looking out of this window.

Her hands slip into her coat pocket and for a moment she's confused at the tiny piece of paper in her pocket. Frowning, Elizaveta pulls it out, and turns it over in her fingers before finally opening it. The message is simple, if it could even be called that—a message, that is—but she reads and rereads it in a bit of disbelief. Her finger brushes over the message, the number to be exact, with a name and a simple sentence from Francis.

I hope this helps mon Cherie and tell Antonio I said hello. The message ends with a wink that Elizaveta can rightly picture on the Frenchman's face. It makes her smile and she gazes out of the window, at the red brick of the apartments next door and the winding black staircase of the fire escape.


A/N: First, I would like to apologize to all of my faithful readers. College sucks (university if you're not from the US)! Okay, it doesn't actually suck but they make you do real work. Can you believe that? I actually have to do my coursework! Anyways, yes, that is the excuse I'm offering for the lack of updates. Please bare with me in this time of transition. If summer would hurry it's lazy ass up, my updates will come quicker! In the mean time, it's raining in Liverpool! :D

-CeCe ^^