Gilbert doesn't believe in fate.
He never asked, but he thinks Elizaveta doesn't either. He can't be sure, though.
He ordered an espresso.
When he asked Ludwig a week ago, the café somehow made its way through his blank mind, and no matter how he tried to avoid it, he always ended outside its door.
"Thanks." He said to the waiter, a young boy with a warm smile.
"You're Gilbert," he said.
Gilbert nodded, maybe just like him, this man cared for Elizaveta enough to spend the time to look into the faces of the ones who were present there. You know, there.
"Well?" He asked, a hand inviting to the espresso at Gilbert's lack of movement.
Uttering a soft "oh," he took a sip.
"How do you like it?"
Gilbert frowned, "it's not awe- what I expected."
Tino shrugged, "she doesn't like it much either."
And then he took a seat across from him.
"She didn't tell you about me at all… that's a bit upsetting, Su and I asked her to do a bit of advertising."
Gilbert blinked.
"You would do better away from here. Away from her. Anything that reminds you of her. Or else the pain will never stop and she'll become just another burden on your back. At some point you won't be able to see her the same way you do anymore. It's impossible to love someone you know absolutely everything about."
Tino said this all very quietly, matter-of-factly, almost harshly. His lips barely moved as he waved to another pair of young men drinking coffee across from him.
"You have to forgive her too. Give her some privacy. It's only fair. After all, what else can you give her at this point? Let her pass. Let her be a mystery."
And Gilbert doesn't know what he's talking about anymore, except that he knows, he knows something about Elizaveta that Gilbert didn't.
"They say the dead can't rest the peace with attachments to the living."
He sounded like an old man.
"Did you know her well?"
Tino shook his head, "no, we had coffee. That's all."
When Gilbert left the coffee house, he felt himself weigh down, if that made any sense.
Oh wait, nothing made any sense anymore
What's sense and what's the point in making it?
It was windy outside and Gilbert crouched down. There was a fallen sand sack in his stomach, the café's background music still played in his ears.
Kiss me hard before you go
Summertime sadness
I just wanted you to know
That baby you da best
It was warm and cold and windy, it smelled like grass and car exhaust, it felt like graphite in the wind and it stank. Tino was crying and Gilbert drank coffee. The coffee was bitter with too much sugar and for some reason that made Gilbert envy Tino. He wished all the tears and bitterness could flow out too, but they just accumulated all in his stomach, boiling up the acid.
Gilbert didn't finish his espresso and Tino put it into a travelling cup for him. It was frozen in his hands.
He wants to be in her, not physically, just so he could understand what she was thinking about, and simultaneously, he wanted to push her away, as if the knowledge would ruin her.
When he appeared outside his door, he stepped aside to let him in.
It was as though Roderich knew exactly what he came for, he was expecting him. Maybe he woke up early this morning to take a shower, because he was expecting him. Maybe he dabbed some of Elizaveta's concealer under his eyes, because he was expecting him. Maybe he vacuumed the floor and ironed his shirt, maybe he called take out so it would smell like food, maybe he jerked off in bed, maybe he took those soiled sheets and threw them in the washer, stuffing them in with the rest of the clothes that stank - until his washer was so full that it didn't start, because he was expecting him.
But he probably didn't.
It felt disgusting, how well Gilbert navigated through his house – their house. On the kitchen wall, Elizaveta's frying pan glistened of water droplets, just washed.
"You may take what you like. But leave me that," he said behind him. Gilbert tore his eyes away from it.
Roderich's house wasn't as neat without Elizaveta. Books lay open on the floor and sofa cushions were arranged awkwardly, like someone tossed them to the side for the sake of tossing them to the side. Yet, it wasn't Elizaveta's absence that caused the house to become disheveled, for Gilbert remembered how perfect it had been before Elizaveta's arrival.
They lived in separate rooms, Gilbert knew that because he often snuck into their back yard at night, foiling any after-dark activities, planned or unplanned. Though it seemed useless as these "activities" were non-existent to begin with.
Roderich must have stayed in Elizaveta's room before he arrived, there was his pot of tea, but it looked cold.
He was free to take whatever he wished?
Oh yes, Roderich was moving.
Gilbert just stood there, admiring it all, condemning it. There was a long green dress laid out on the bed, and a various assortment of trinkets spread out on her desk.
Car keys, the key to Gilbert's apartment, the key to Gilbird's cage, a key that he didn't know, the key to Roderich's garage… keys. Is that a bike key?
The room smelled like her, looked like her.
The clothes she wore inside her closet, her makeup in one particular drawer, a mirror behind her door, this room is Elizaveta, and Elizaveta is this room. This room embodied her thoughts, her personality, her secrets.
He began to shift through her closet, there was a various assortment of brassieres, panties, stockings, and a new swimsuit. He threw all that on her bed, along with a cotton flannel shirt, one that matched his and a pair of work jeans with a splatter of motor oil across the crotch.
Then carefully, he removed her laptop from its case. It was sleek and silver and cool to the touch.
Finally, he took the pink flower ornament from her beside table and jumped on the pile, taking in her smell. Vaguely, he felt the laptop slip off the bed and onto the carpet with a thump.
Surrounded by her.
This was her he was lying on top of. She was everywhere. How could this not be Elizaveta? How could this not be Elizaveta if this is everything Elizaveta was made of? If Elizaveta is a smell, if Elizaveta is a sound, a whisper, a shadow, if Elizaveta changed motor oil, if Elizaveta wore ornaments in her hair, then this must be Elizaveta.
So please let him believe that for just a little while longer. Please.
Tired and lightheaded, he flipped open his cell phone and went to voice mail.
"Hey, Gil, I'm coming over in five. You got any pads? Or tampons? Or something?-" her muffled voice said.
"Yeah, diapers," he interjected.
"Mind if I stay over?-"
"Pay for rent."
"Thanks!"
"You're so not awesome, Liz."
He unbelted, slid the leather right off his waist and tore off his jacket and tank top, Elizaveta's stockings were right under his head. Along with it, he tossed down the shirt and dress. Abruptly, he lifted his back and shoved off his jeans, taking a whiff of her stockings. She didn't wash them.
From the bedside table, he grabbed her hand lotion. It smelled of limes.
As his fingers set to the familiar motion, rocking up and down, twisting and jerking, he was frantic; he needed to finish before the magic was over. He turned to face her panties, well aware of how he had forgotten to wear his boxers this morning. Or maybe it was yesterday morning? When did he last take a shower?
It felt good, warm and sluggish, a half-arsed dream.
He could imagine her in this bed alone at night, because God, that damned aristocrat must be impotent if they're sleeping apart. What would she do? Pull a hand into her pajama pants? Which finger would she use? Her index of course, and she would just rub, almost softly scratching at the nip, and maybe Roderich would step into her room after knocking his snobbish knock and talk to her about how Beet-what's-his-face was German. Or maybe she'd be webcamming with Gilbert himself, but her hand (the left one), wouldn't stop moving as she popped chips into her lips, sucking all the fat off her fingers.
Or maybe she liked to flip through porn, gay porn, with ear plugs as she smiled at the webcam, shiver in pleasure when a particular scene unraveled, maybe she liked being watched, enjoyed it when Vash and Ludwig camped out in Gilbert's room. She probably did it everyday, on some days, the blood might get under her fingernails and she might think it's a total pain to wash it out. Perhaps she's gotten used to blood, the smell of it, the taste of it.
Elizaveta's twenty-four, her boyfriend's penis gets off playing piano, and she decided not to have any friends with benefits.
When he left, he carried her hair tie, that flower ornament, her laptop, some clothes, her swimsuit, a bottle of nail polish and her bed sheet.
He took everything he could, and yet, he took nothing at all.