Gilbert doesn't think Elizaveta was ever in love with Roderich.
Maybe she loved him in her own way, the way she loved Feliciano, but sex must be strange, or maybe it wasn't so strange, if one cared to believe so.
Gilbert thinks this because he thinks he's never seen Elizaveta in love before. He would like to, though. He can't imagine her like Belle, who enjoyed travelling and foreign lovers, ravished one-week journeys, enough to write trilogies of for each. She packed those weeks with compact passion, she doesn't talk about them much, but when she does, she is like an old lady speaking of her first love, a hint of nostalgic sweetness, so that nobody ever knows just how much of it is true, and how much is fabricated by her fantasies. She loved them. It was always past tense. Elizaveta seemed a bit different; she seemed to be attached to things. Not quite like Francis, who fell in love with (an old phrase) love. Who enticed himself around the natural, embellished the stomach rolls when they hugged their knees, the soft flesh bending to his will when he clawed at their thighs, how their lips melted into his when he kissed them, enamoured by fields of muscles, sliding past east each other, quieted by the sounds of their voices. Francis loved them all, loves them all. Being Francis' lover meant you were his love forever, it meant you have him infinitely, unconditionally, as long as you allowed the simple fact that he also loves others, so many that you would not be able to count, and many more to count. For some reason, most stopped bothering with Francis when they learned that.
What about Elizaveta though?
Would she be loyal? Unyielding? Motherly?
No. She'd just be Elizaveta, just the same as ever. You'd never know if she were in love with you or not.
By the time these thoughts faded, he was outside another house.
He doesn't know what he gained, travelling like this, he felt a bit like a stalker, to peek into Elizaveta's secrets, just a bit.
He rang the doorbell.
It's a nice house, he decided, not really looking.
There was a scuffle and the thumping of someone running to the doorway, then abruptly turning back.
Annoyed, Gilbert pressed the button again.
"I head you, you little-"
"Be quiet!" A hushed voice whisper-screamed back, "what are you doing here? I, like, don't even know you!"
Gilbert licked his lips. He doesn't know either.
"I just want to talk." Wow. How lame could he get?
The man on the other side hesitated, debating…
"Just talk here."
Gilbert rolled his voice.
Well, he could always-
"you see, I'm albino, the sun's not good for me."
That one always works.
But it didn't, not this time.
So he leaves.
If leaving was easy, and if leaving meant stepping away from pain, then Gilbert would gladly leave. So in a sense, Gilbert didn't leave at all.
Gilbert doesn't know when friendship ended and love began.
He tried to ask Elizaveta once.
"Why isn't friendship love?" She asked back.
The event that evoked this question felt dimly intimidating in his head. There was a girl, or a boy, or something… and what did they do?
He remembered Elizaveta's affairs a little bit better.
In university, after she started dating Roderich. It must have been last year, then, there was a Turkish man, he had a strange name, Sadiq? Was it? Anyway, it was awfully funny (in Gilbert's opinion) watching Roderich's face turn red and white, blotches of it, when Sadiq appeared under Elizaveta's window and sang some sappy love song about conquering flowers with swords.
Gilbert just laughed, it wasn't particularly funny to him, but it should be, so he laughed.
Feliks said that Gilbert loved her.
Just once, when Gilbert sat outside his door.
It was quiet, and soft, and about a week after Gilbert started sitting outside his door.
"You love her."
Did he? Maybe, in that quiet fashion he adopted when loving things, though that didn't seem quite right.
Feliks had painted his fingernails, they were shiny now, colourless but shiny and they shook.
And Gilbert remembers.
"I have a friend who works in design. We paint our nails together." It was one of those small details that existed in Gilbert's brain in Elizaveta's voice. It spoke to him randomly, absurdly, and he really didn't want to hear it at all.
"Totally n-ot awe-some," he said back.
Elizaveta must have retorted, with some… thi…n…
Gilbert was sweating now, Feliks was there, but he wasn't there. He was invisible in the door behind him, and yet he was right in front of him. Nothing made sense, everything made sense.
What?
All he knows is that an array of bruises and scratches tore away his body, piece by piece.
They appeared effortlessly, sometimes, he'd find a thin red filament, healing. Despite their fragile nature, they left scars of all shapes and sizes, some short, some long. Gilbert hadn't expected them to litter so much of his skin, imprinting tiny little scars – not exactly scars, just a part where the skin appeared a little darker, a little brownish against him, against the translucent skin that seemed grotesque, with blood vessels almost visible, he could almost feel the blood flowing through him.
Gilbert thought about them for a second, and then he was back, a tangible mess of impatience and anger.
"Tell me." He demanded the man behind the door.
Feliks shook his head ever so slightly and stepped back, part of his face shadowed.
Of course, that's all in Gilbert's head.
"I can't tell you what you don't want to know."
Gilbert can't really remember what happened next, maybe he could, but I can't. All in all, he found himself walking back home.
He would visit Feliks again, he decided.
"You can't push it too hard or it'll just fall off the talbe."
Elizavta just came back from a trip, this was after winter break, she had brought back a doll like thing that Gilbert conveniently forgot the name of.
Either way, when you push the doll, it leans in the opposite direction, away from you, and when you take your finger away, it bounces back towards you, swaying about.
Elizaveta was wearing a blouse, collar open, a polka-dot tie loosely hung around her neck, black and white, or maybe white and black. She wore tight yellow jeans, her hair tousled messily in a pony tail, with strands falling into her face, she brushed them away with the back of her hand.
Gilbert yawned loudly.
"Do you want food?"
"Do you even need to ask?"
"Well I want food too."
"…"
"C'mon. Run downstairs, they're selling sushi today."
Gilbert groans, but gave in when Eilzaveta fell onto his bed with a thump dead tired after a trip.
He knew her when she lay like that, face down, inert. So he circles the campus a few times before buying sushi. There wasn't much he could do when she's like that. He learned that the way Elizaveta liked to be alone is like that. He learned it, the way Elizaveta liked to be alone is like that of an old man who's lost his life, Gilbert didn't understand it too well. It's different for Elizaveta, that much he knew. Because afterall, he had Ludwig, a brother. Elizaveta didn't. Gilbert considered becoming her brother when he was younger. The idea appealed to him, but something stopped him from carrying it out.
When he returned, three boxes of sushi in a little plastic baggie, Elizaveta was on his lap top. Whatever happened next hadn't seemed like an important memory, so Gilbert shed most of it.
She was reading something, most likely gay manga.
He told her to delete the history, what if poor little innocent Ludwig saw the hardcore banging?
Elizaveta laughed and said Ludwig probably already kne-
Gilbert fell down on the open pavement, walking back from Feliks' house. It hurts.
But just a few more scratches, bruises and scars.
That's all.
Two weeks, two weeks for this to turn into his life.
He patted himself on the back, admiring how well he adjusted.
He was blown up, dirty, crying. Four-year-old Ludwig lugged behind him, also crying. But he couldn't hear anything other than his own sobs.
He can't remember how long he cried for, nor how they managed to slip out of the ruins, cold and tired, but they did.
"We can't stay small forever," that was one of the first things (s)he said to her when they met again, he still thought the other was a boy.
No matter the age, or time, Hédévary had changed. Something in his movement or speech, or both, that perhaps scared him a little, not realizing he too, had changed.
"Me an' Liz met when we were real young, three or four or sommat, I was just this wee lil' thing, and to be honest, I can't remember properly but I don't think we liked each other all that much."
Silence followed, he didn't attempt to talk to him face to face again, not quite so soon. But on the other side of the door, he knew Feliks was listening.
He decided to try what Feliks had suggested (well, not really suggest), and get it out of Roddy.
"Well it's a nice day. Gilbird likes it. Sun's shining and stuff."
"Man, Gilbird, I feel he's getting to me ya know? Like his opening up." Gilbird chirped.
Elizaveta pressed people against the wall when she wanted to seem intimidating.
"So, what did you say?" She'd ask with a smile.
Sure enough, it was scary. But one strange time Gilbert noted that he had grown taller than Elizaveta, though that hardly made a difference.
It felt good anyway. But then he realized Elizaveta is capable of smashing your head in no matter your height, where you live or what you are.
Gilbert blinked hard, he wanted to know, but maybe some part of him didn't care. He was too calm. Every muscle. He was afraid of what would come after this calm numbness when it disappeared. All his wounds, scars and flesh must rip open, and the pain must be unbearable, white and burning.
"When you don't know the answer, just listen to the rain."
Gilbert was crying, or semi-crying, or something. It was teary and confusing and a bunch of bullshit, all he knew was that he had to cry and cry, and cry. Crying was catharsis and Elizaveta was good at pretending he's air.
It must be strange, talking to air.
It's also embarrassing leaning into her shoulder and holding onto her waist as he shook, but he did it anyway.
It's summer now, and not a single drop of rain dared to fall from the cloudless sky. Gilbert had on dark polarized sunglasses that made him look like an FBI agent and a large, heavy military like umbrella over his head.
He stopped by his house, taking in a glass of water from the counter. Ludwig most likely set it out. Beside the wursts were cold and beer that had fizzed out. A plate of mashed potatoes with saran wrap over it.
He missed lunch again.
Heading to his bedroom, he opened his closet, sliding the door open with a groan. Elizaveta's things lay on the carpet, bright contrast to his neatly folded underwear.
Taking out her lap top he set it on the mahogany floor and flipped it open. The password as always was GilbertIfYoureTypingThisImGoingToMakeYouHurt
It's long and sometimes it's just GilYouWillHurt
"No use now Lizzy" he whispered, half expecting the frying pan to crack open his head.
It was the usual, he clicked open chrome and waited for the page to load, it was her email, the last web page she opened, to Lovino.
Hi Lovi, how are you? You changed your number again so I can't reach you.
And that was all, not sent yet.
The front door slammed, Gilbert sighed.
The pitter patter of foot steps down the stairs, slovenly.
"good morning, Gilbert-san."
"Oh hey Kiku, did I forget to lock the door?"
Kiku shook his head, "No, Ludwig-kun told me to come in. Should I leave?"
It was an empty question, but it had to be asked.
Kiku is a strange man. He looked young, but the moment he spoke, he sounded like an old man.
"No, dun worry, come right in!"
He beamed as brightly as he could.
The scruffling of shoes being removed felt absurdly loud.
"So, anything to drink? I've got a hell lota beer…"
"No, that would be fine."
"You sure? It's hot as hell."
"No, I wouldn't want to impose."
"C'mon, just one glass."
"Well… if it's just only one glass."
"You have to ask him three times." Ludwig's instructions echoed in his head.
Weird bunch, thought Gilbert.
He sat for a while, sweat drenched and blinds down, two glasses of beer on the coffee table that Gilbert wanted to throw away.
"Thank you."
Gilbert nodded, waving the thanks away with an airy hand.
They sat in silence for a while.
"It's been hot recently," Kiku commented, "are you faring well?"
It was a delicate question, softly phrased. And crushing.
Gilbert shrugged, "nothing outrageous."
"It would do you well to unleash yourself from the heat of it all," he said lightly, almost gently.
"You think I should go have a dip at the pool?"
"No," he shook his head, "put yourself in the freezer, ghosts aren't fond of electrical appliances."
Gilbert raised an eyebrow, "ghosts? So not awesome."
"Yes, Gilbert-san, but this one is a nice one. If you don't worry it, if you don't meddle, it will leave and rest in peace."
Gilbert chuckled at the ceiling, "is it a pretty ghost?"
Kiku searched relentlessly, wandering, "yes," he said finally, when Gilbert almost forgot the question, "it is beautiful. Nothing as beautiful nor horrible had ever appeared on a ghost before. From my experiences," he added humbly.
The conversation didn't exactly go like that. But that's okay. There might have been screaming, but Gilbert liked to make himself sound good.
"You're a strange one, aren't you? I'm hardly surprised, all my bruder's buddies are pretty weird."
When Ludwig came back, disturbed to find Gilbert chuckling to himself on the sofa, Gilbert upped and patted Ludwig on the shoulder.
Throwing on his sunglasses and picking up his military umbrella, he waved to the pair.
"It would do best to let the ghost go," Kiku said again.
Gilbert chewed his words dreamily, "thanks for the warning, see ya."
"What?" He heart Ludwig mutter to nobody in particular.
Flipping through his phone, he absent-mindedly called Lovino as he locked the door.
"What?" He sounded harsh, tired. Gilbert supposed the hospital wore him out.
And as though it was some dream stopped short, Gilbert's sluggish grin dropped to pieces.
"I thought you changed your number."
His voice sounded foreign, cold in his head.
"Huh? Oh yeah, I was going to but this happened and everything's in a fucking sling now."
Going to.
He was going to.
Gilbert raced back home.
The feelings I had as a thirteen year old were strange. They grappled at the wrong parts of me and hardened me into something I didn't want to be. They burnt and they stung, but I was unrelenting. Just like a bad smell, if you smell it enough, you can't smell it anymore.
If I say 'everything's okay', will you believe me?
Would you believe Gilbert, if he said to you, that he doesn't miss her? Would you believe him, if he said that old clichéd line? The one about leaving her with a smile and moving on so that she could be happy too?
You wouldn't, right?
Then what would you believe? What do you know about Gilbert for you to say that? You don't really understand Gilbert at all, do you? Well, neither do I.
Gilbert is the sound of