Wilmersdorf, Berlin, 1849
"Gilbert Maria Beilschmidt!"
The name rang through the mansion as echoes of the shattered vase rang through the boy's head. For a moment, all he could do was stare at the broken pieces, as if doing so could somehow mend them back together. The vase had been Mother's favorite.
Gilbert's hands still gripped the round table in the hall. He had tried to hold it steady — tried to keep the vase from falling — catching himself as he tripped and knocked into the table. He had missed the last step again coming down the stairs. The patterned runner made it blend seamlessly with the one before it. He should have been holding onto the hand rail — as he had been scolded so often before — then he would have known where the stair was.
Footsteps thundered overhead. Father.
Gilbert started, surprised to find the family maid already there with a dust pan and brush in hand.
"Leave it! The boy made this mess and he can learn how to clean it."
Volker Beilschmidt descended the stairs, dismissing the maid with a broad sweep of his hand.
Slowly, Gilbert peeled himself off the table and stood, hands held in tight fists at his side, shoulders rounding as if he could somehow hide.
"Straighten that back, young man. Head, level."
Gilbert did as he was told, counting each deliberate footfall as his father circled around, surveying the scene.
"What happened?"
Gilbert swallowed. "I...bumped into the table."
Volker stopped in front of his son. He made a motion with his arms, and Gilbert thought for a moment a comforting hand would be placed on his shoulder, but he was mistaken as his father firmly clasped them behind his back.
"This is the third time this week you've knocked into something. I only regret it had to be your mother's vase. You must be mindful of your actions, Gilbert. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Carelessness is inexcusable."
Fingernails dug into his palm at that. It was unfair.
"I wasn't," Gilbert muttered.
"Sorry?"
"I wasn't being careless," the boy fired back. "I just didn't see the stair."
Volker drew a deep breath, considering his son a moment. "Take the pieces to your room and put the vase back together. I have some glue in my study. You are not to leave until called for, understood?"
Gilbert's shoulders rounded again. "Yes, sir."
.
o
.
"For God's sake, Gilbert, stop screwing your face up like that."
The boy glanced over the top of his book, wondering how his father could possibly have seen him squinting. Volker was across the room and seemed wholly absorbed in his newspaper. Gilbert blinked a few times, trying to get his eyes to focus.
.
o
.
"No son of mine is going to wear corrective lenses."
He was sitting by the window in the parlor while Father and the doctor conversed at a table nearby. It had been overcast all day, the afternoon clouds thickening and turning a darker shade of grey, threatening rain any moment. Gilbert liked days like this — there was no glare from the bright sun hurting his eyes and he could see the flowers down in the garden, the rooflines and shapes of the other houses on his street.
Gilbert tucked his hands under him as he looked out the window. The doctor was not the family's normal one. He was a specialist, had come from the city's center just to examine him. He had brought a chart with a few lines he made Gilbert read, instructing the boy to cover one eye, then the other. He then brought out a few lenses for Gilbert to try on while reading the chart again.
During the examination, Father had sat, stone-faced and sour. No one else in the family wore glasses. Father said so time and again. Gilbert did not need glasses either. He just needed to stop being so careless. And Gilbert wanted to believe his father was right. Wanted to believe it so badly. But even he could not pretend the lenses were of no help.
The doctor gave a pointed clearing of his throat. "Like it or not, Mr. Beilschmidt, reduced visual acuity is an unfortunate symptom of your son's disorder. However, his case is not the worse I've seen. I once treated a lady with albinism who was all but blind."
Gilbert tried to ignore his father's displeased huff at the mention of his condition.
"My lenses helped her regain some vision," the doctor continued. "And your son is still young. If he begins wearing the glasses now, there's a chance his eyes will strengthen and he may have little need for the lenses later in life."
Gilbert felt his father's eyes on him. He kept his face turned to the window, a shameful heat creeping up his neck.
"Fine," Volker ground out. "And how much will this be costing me?"
.
o
.
Wilmersdorf, Berlin, 1866
The wound on his thigh was still healing. It had been stitched three weeks ago, but the cut from the saber had been deep. Deep enough it nearly unseated him from his horse. He only thanked God it had missed the artery. Gilbert's time in the war was over after that, despite his insistence he could still fight. How could a cavalryman mount a horse with a bad leg? And, as his commanding officer assured him, the war was all but won after their actions at Königgrätz. Nineteen days later, an armistice between Prussia and Austria was declared and Gilbert had been granted leave to return home.
He leaned on his cane as the carriage driver unloaded his suitcase from the back. It had been a long, five day journey back to Berlin, and his leg was feeling every moment of it as he stood in front of his family's house. The driver offered to carry his luggage to the door, but Gilbert waved him off with a generous tip.
The carriage departed and Gilbert was quite alone on the tree-lined street, looking up at the austere, red-roofed house where he had grown up.
It had been four years since he was last home. Four years. Following his expulsion from the military academy. Though the discharge was an honorable one, the memory of it still brought a bitter sting to his heart.
Gilbert shoved it away, picked up his case, and approached the front door.
He had barely finished knocking when the door opened and he was greeted, not by the maid, but by the barrel chest and blonde head of his baby brother. Though, at eighteen and almost half a head taller than Gilbert, Ludwig could hardly be considered a baby anymore.
The point was further driven home as he pulled Gilbert into a crushing embrace.
"Easy, Lutz!"
"Sorry!" Ludwig drew back, holding his brother at arm's length, looking him up and down. "Father said you were coming, and — " His eyes fell on the cane. A small furrow creased his brow. "...Sorry," he said again.
Gilbert swallowed and tried to smile. "Hey, don't look so upset! In another week, I'll be walking just fine." He clapped his brother on the shoulder. "I heard you start at the academy in September," Gilbert continued, casting about for a change of subject.
"Yes. Father invited some of the administration staff and professors for dinner later this week."
They entered the hall. The vase Gilbert had broken as a boy still stood on its round table before the stairs. A strange jolt went through him at the sight of it, and he wanted nothing more in that moment than to smash it all over again.
The feeling passed as quickly as it had flared, and Gilbert followed his brother up to the second floor.
"I'm sure they'll have all sorts of questions for you," Ludwig was saying, but Gilbert was hardly listening. A dull, reverberating tone was building between his ears, as though someone had struck a tuning fork. The pitch grew in intensity until Gilbert had to stop a moment, the sound threatening to overwhelm him.
"...Gil? Are you feeling well?"
Gilbert shook his head, his brother's voice no more than a muffled echo. "No, I'm fine, Lutz. I just...It's good to see you, but I just...I need to lay down. I'm tired."
He limped past his brother, heading for his room at the end of the hall. Gilbert shut the door behind him, letting his bag fall to the floor as he leaned against the solid wood.
.
o
.
He did not remember finding his bed or even falling asleep.
The next thing he did know, the maid was in his room opening windows to let in some fresh air.
Gilbert pushed himself up, quietly thankful he was still fully dressed as she went about her duties. The light streaming through the window was bright, casting a glare off the wood floor and rug. If he had to guess what time of day it was, he would have said mid-morning.
The maid gave a small start when she saw him awake. "My apologies, sir. I did not mean to disturb you."
"It's alright," Gilbert said, his voice husky from sleep. He rubbed his eyes, vaguely registering how young she was by the sound of her voice. "Would you mind closing the curtains a bit?"
The maid did as she was asked, her eyes lingering a moment on him.
"Do you think me handsome?" he smirked, deflecting her stare.
The maid's cheeks flushed a brilliant pink. "Forgive me. I meant no disrespect."
Gilbert's pointed grin eased into a gentle smile. "It's alright. I was only teasing. How long have you worked for my family?"
"Three years, sir."
"Hm. I'm sure my father has had little cause to mention me. The subject of his eldest son is not one he often entertains." Gilbert relaxed back against the headboard, his eyes no longer straining at the harsh light. "How long have I been asleep?"
"Just a day. You've missed breakfast, I'm afraid, but I could bring a tray up if you'd like, sir."
Gilbert shook his head. "I'll just take a cup of coffee in the parlor, thank you."
The maid nodded and left him to dress.
Gilbert reached for the cane leaning against his bed, swung his legs down, and stood. The right one still felt stiff. He checked the dressing but it was clean. He bandaged it, knowing it would be another few months before he could walk properly on it again, despite what he told his brother. That hussar's saber had cut him near to the bone.
Gilbert limped over to his dresser where a basin of water stood. He washed his face and hands, reveling for a moment at the feeling of water running down his forearms. He had bathed when he was at the field hospital too, but it was quite a different experience to do so in the privacy of one's own room, not surrounded by scores of sick and injured men. This war had not been like the last one, he thought as he toweled his face dry. It was quicker. Bloodier. Their allies now their enemies, both sides nearly equally matched. He bore a few scars from the war with the Danes. There were faded, silvery lines on his arms from deflected sword strikes; and the vertical notch between the bridge of his nose and right brow from flying debris lent a perpetually skeptical look to his face, as did cut above his lip.
But none matched the gash on his leg.
He felt the room begin to tilt at the thought.
Gilbert gripped the edge of the dresser, steadying himself. His father would doubtless wish to see him, and he would be damned if he let Volker see him in such a state. He straightened his back and finished getting ready.
His suitcase was still by the door from the previous day. After a quick rummage, Gilbert found a decent enough shirt and trousers. He tucked his reading glasses into the breast pocket of his vest and eyed his cane, remembering the look Ludwig had given it — had given him — and knowing his father's would be far worse. Volker never could hide his contempt for anything he perceived as weakness.
Gilbert smiled grimly to himself. And headed downstairs.
.
o
.
His father was seated, reading a newspaper, at the round center table in the parlor, as was Ludwig. His coffee stood waiting in front of the only empty chair between them.
Gilbert drew a deep breath and limped over.
Volker looked up as his eldest son approached and sat, his thin smile curling disdainfully at the sight of the cane.
"Good of you to join us," he said with a pointed sniff and rustling of paper. "Your letter home made your injury sound rather...inconsequential."
"Well." Gilbert's jaw clenched. "I didn't want you to worry."
The clock on the mantle ticked away in the ensuing silence.
Gilbert reached for his cup just to have something to do with his hands and took a long sip. He glanced over at his brother, who appeared wholly absorbed in the book he was reading, though Gilbert knew better. He chewed the inside of his lip, fingers lightly tapping against his cup.
Gilbert often privately joked his relationship with his father had been strained since birth, as the white haired baby with strangely colored eyes did not meet Volker Beilschmidt's preconceptions as to what a first-born son ought to be. But there was a degree of truth to it. So much so, the tension in the air became near tangible whenever they were in the same room together. Gilbert knew Ludwig could feel it too. Knew his brother had long suffered as the middle piece between them. And that strain was why his brother was now boring a hole through a book instead of actually reading it.
Gilbert nudged his brother's foot under the table, sending him a knowing smirk when Ludwig looked up.
His brother's cheeks flushed pink as he set the book down with a sheepish grin. Gilbert recognized the title. It was one of his old ones from the academy. His smirk faded at that. The academy was just another bullet point in the long list of failures his father assigned to him. One Volker sought to rectify through his youngest son. Theirs had been a long line of military tradition filled with high-ranking officers. A tradition Gilbert had broken in more ways than one.
He would never sire any children, and though he was in the Prussian army, he was only an enlisted man. A sergeant. Never mind he worked his way up from the lowest ranks to get there. It wasn't good enough for Volker. Would never be. If only his son had put his talent to use and graduated the academy and gotten his commission. If only.
He looked at his brother. Their father's dreams now rested on his shoulders. God help him if he should fail...
"Gilbert, for God's sake stop that tapping," Volker said, not bothering to look up from his paper.
His fingers stilled in an instant. He brought the cup to his lips and drank, the coffee having cooled to room temperature.
Beside him, Ludwig shifted in his seat, wanting to either talk to his brother or pick his book up and actually read it this time. He glanced at their father, buried behind a newspaper, then back to Gilbert.
"How was your journey? Was Bohemia much different than — "
The clock struck the hour, the bells stealing the rest of Ludwig's question as their father's paper was lowered, folded, and placed on the table.
"Your uniform fitting is today, Ludwig," Volker announced. "We must get ready to depart."
Ludwig nodded and sent his brother a fleeting apologetic smile as he left the parlor.
Volker stood. Picking up his newspaper and tucking it under his arm, he paused a moment.
Gilbert found himself sitting a little straighter in his chair. He looked up at his father, but Volker was preoccupied adjusting the fit of his cuffs.
"I trust you are well, then?"
Gilbert swallowed. "…Yes."
"Good. We have matters to discuss while you're here…convalescing."
And with that, Volker took his leave.
The parlor fell silent again, save for the mantle clock. Gilbert finished his coffee, then slowly pushed his chair back from the table. He limped out into the hall, eyes catching again on the vase he had broken when he was seven. His mother's favorite. She had died two winters after that, his brother having barely just turned two. He wondered if Ludwig even remembered her.
He mounted the stairs, going back to his room, the house unnervingly quiet.
.
o
.
As the week drew to a close, the house became a flurry of activity in preparation for Ludwig's academy dinner. Gilbert kept mostly to his room, not wanting to be in the way anymore than he already felt. Had his father bothered to mention the dinner in his correspondence four weeks ago, he would have happily pushed his leave back in order to miss it. A part of him could not help but feel its omission was intentional on Volker's part. Gilbert was nineteen when he last saw those old men. Nineteen and about to start his second year when he was kicked out for cheating. The whole thing reeked of a set up every time he replayed it in his head, though he never had any proof except for just his word. And the fact his father never demanded an investigation be made only added to the hurt. It meant Volker believed the administration over his own son.
Gilbert had no desire to see those men now, five years after the fact. He half considered hiring a coach to take him to the city's center for the day out of spite. But then he thought of Ludwig and knew he could not do that to his brother.
Gilbert changed into his dress uniform that evening, his cane leaning against the dresser. He was determined to go that night without it. He would be damned if he let those codgers have the satisfaction of looking down their noses any further at him. After checking his reflection in the mirror, he took a few practice steps around the room, breathing out slowly each time he put weight on his bad leg. But after a few paces, the pain was too much. He just managed to catch himself against his bed post before his leg gave out completely. Gilbert grunted in frustration, allowing himself a brief respite before trying again.
Again, his leg refused any weight. Gilbert sank back onto his bed, fists pummeling the mattress. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
Someone knocked at his door.
"Gil?" Ludwig's voice.
He drew a deep breath and leaned forward. "Yeah?" Elbows rested on knees, hands scrubbing over his face.
The door cracked open and in his brother stepped, blonde hair swept back from his face and black dinner suit glossed to perfection.
"Well," Gilbert began, already hating the bitter edge coloring his voice. "Don't you look dashing."
Ludwig looked down at himself, then back at his brother. "It's almost time to go down, if...you're ready."
"...Yeah. Yeah, I'm ready." He stood, taking another deep breath, and drew his shoulders back. He took one step, but his leg buckled under him.
"Gil!"
Ludwig rushed forward as Gilbert's hand shot out, anchoring to the bedpost for support. He cheated a glance up at his brother, then cleared his throat, looking down and away.
Wordlessly, Ludwig went over to the dresser and retrieved his brother's cane. Gilbert started to protest, but Ludwig simply took his hand and placed it around the curved handle.
"You have nothing to prove to them," he said gently.
Gilbert nodded, for his brother's sake, and followed him out. Ludwig didn't know — would never be able to know fully — what it was like. Ludwig, who was born perfection. Ludwig, the favored son. He would never know just how much Gilbert had to prove himself for people to see beyond his appearance.
The guests were being seated as they made their way downstairs. There were more men than women, given his and Ludwig's bachelor status and their widower father. But that alone did not prepare Gilbert for his seating arrangement at the far end of the table with a face he wished he could forget. It belonged to his old military tactics professor. The one who had accused him of cheating. Herr Drechsler. Though the cadets all called him Dreckskerl — bastard — behind his back. A nickname not so much earned as embodied. How his father could have invited this man. Gilbert looked down the table to where Volker was seated, but his father was engaged in conversation with the headmaster's wife.
His palms felt clammy. Gilbert smoothed them on his trouser legs as the maid came around filling the wine glasses. He reached for his, taking a large gulp.
"Now, now," a voice beside him drawled. "Surely you haven't been amongst the lower ranks long enough to forget your etiquette."
Gilbert cast a sideways glance. Drechsler's attention was on him, the man's face the same glistening red Gilbert remembered from his academy days, as if he had spent too much time in the sun.
Gilbert set the glass down and unfolded his napkin, placing it in his lap.
"It is rather indecorous to snub your guests," Drechsler continued.
Gilbert looked at him fully now. "I have nothing I wish to say to you."
"You wore your uniform this evening, I see," Drechsler simpered. His eyes fell on the service medals pinned to Gilbert's overcoat with a mocking smile. "How charming."
Gilbert turned back to his plate, willing himself not to rise to the bait. He finished his glass of wine, signaling to the maid for a refill, and was spared further conversation by the woman on Drechsler's right taking up that obligation as the main course was served.
Aside from himself, his brother, and his father, Drechsler was the only other unmarried man at the dinner party. He often explained away his late in life bachelorhood by saying he was married to his country, having served for twenty years in the Prussian army before retiring from that and going to teach at the academy in his mid-forties. He had only been teaching for two years when Gilbert started, but already had earned a reputation for being one of the harshest professors there. Though he did have a knack for selecting and grooming cadets who invariably went on to see great successes in their careers. And Gilbert had been one of them.
"I always said you were capable of great things," Drechsler's voice breathed in his ear. For a moment, Gilbert thought he had imagined it, his grip briefly tightening around his fork and knife. He speared a piece of meat, chewing slowly, deliberately.
"There were many who dismissed you because of your...condition. They couldn't see your potential, your drive. Even your father."
Gilbert looked at Drechsler, dumbstruck. No one — no one — ever dared criticize Volker Beilschmidt in such public company. Gilbert glanced around the table, but there was no indication the professor had been overheard.
"It's true," Drechsler sighed. "He's been too short-sighted where you are concerned." This time, he offered a small smile — one that almost seemed contrite.
Gilbert lowered his utensils, pushing his plate away. The dull tone between his ears returned, the invisible tuning fork struck. He wanted to speak, but was cut short by his father announcing a toast. All attention turned to the head of the table, but Gilbert lost any of what was said as the pitch continued to build.
It ended in a blink. For a moment, he thought his eardrums had shattered. Everything was so blessedly quiet. Until the sounds of the dining room, the din of conversation, rushed back in like a wave seeking the shore.
The ladies were rising, making their way to the drawing room for coffee and tea, while the men went to the parlor for a smoke. Gilbert followed, wanting to have his cigarette out on the veranda but was waylaid by the history professor who seemed rather keen to hear his perspective on the war as an enlisted man. Gilbert indulged him over a brandy. Then followed more hearty congratulations directed Ludwig's way as the drinks began to warm the men's blood. Eventually, they rejoined the ladies in the drawing room before breaking off into groups for conversation or cards.
Gilbert made his rounds, exchanging pleasantries here and there, making sure he had spoken to everyone, as his father always instructed him to do. Well, not everyone, he thought, as his eyes fell on Drechsler, shuffling a deck of cards and chatting to the headmaster's wife.
Gilbert drew a deep breath and limped over. "Mind if I join?"
Drechsler grinned. "And here I thought I'd have to teach the good lady how to play Two-hand Skat. Now we can have a proper game."
They played three rounds, with the headmaster's wife winning both the first and final ones before excusing herself as some of the ladies were starting a game of checkers.
Drechsler reshuffled the deck, leaning in with a conspiratorial smirk. "I let her win. The old woman is as daft as they come."
"I thought so," Gilbert said. "I remember you being quite the hand at Skat."
Drechsler blinked. "Found your voice, then?"
Gilbert cleared his throat. "I wanted to apologize. For the way I acted at dinner. I — "
"It's all past. Care for another game? I trust you remember how to play."
Gilbert swallowed, his palms sweaty again. He remembered. Lazy afternoons after his studies were finished. Muggy summer nights during field exercises. And then —
"Just deal."
Drechsler grinned.
"Did you mean it earlier? What you said...about me."
"Of course I meant it, Gilbert. I wouldn't have said otherwise."
Gilbert set his cards down. "Then why did you — when you fucking knew I didn't — why did you — "
"I didn't do anything. You threw your chance away." Drechsler sat back in his chair, studying him with a self-satisfied look. "But that's not to say amends cannot be made. There are other ways of securing you a commission." A raised brow, followed by the brush of a foot against his calf.
Gilbert withdrew his leg, working his jaw with a pointed glare. "I was foolish to think you had changed. To think you actually felt some remorse — "
"Remorse?" Drechsler scoffed. "I offered you a choice. And as always, you chose your pride."
"That wasn't a choice — "
"Tell me," Drechsler sneered, "how does someone like you make sergeant? Your father washed his hands of you after your discharge. You no longer have his influence to aid you. Your knees must be bruised for days."
Gilbert lunged, throwing himself over the card table and knocking Drechsler to the floor. One hand was at the older man's throat, the other drawn back in a fist. His heart pounded between his ears, chest heaving with each breath. Drechsler grinned maliciously up at him, daring him to strike.
Reality crashed down around him as the noise of the room died in an instant, all eyes turning to see the spectacle.
Gilbert lowered his fist. Shocked mutterings swept through the room as he got to his feet. He scanned the crowd, looking for his brother, looking for a way out.
Ludwig stood behind their father, Volker's arm acting as a barrier between them.
Gilbert set his jaw and retrieved his cane, sending them all a contemptuous glare before turning and exiting the room.
"I say, Beilschmidt, your son needs to control that temper of his," someone remarked.
The din of the guests returned as Volker made his apologies. Gilbert thought he heard his brother call his name but did not stop. He made his way to the front door and out, wanting to just get away.
There was a sporting-house on the eastern edge of Wilmersdorf that catered to all tastes of the affluent neighborhood's residents, and it was here Gilbert headed. Squeezing past card tables and ladies with their heavily rouged faces, he made his way to the bar for a drink. It did not take long for one of the ladies to approach, but he waved her off as he downed his beer. He soon ordered a second, followed by a third, not wanting to think, not wanting to feel anything but blessed numbness.
The empty seat to his right was soon taken up by a young man with a blue silk scarf around his neck. He sat with his back to the bar, elbows resting lazily behind him on the wood top, pretending to take in the crowd before his clever eyes latched onto Gilbert.
"Rough night?" He nodded at the steins in front of the Prussian soldier.
"You could say that."
The young man leaned in closer, one hand on Gilbert's thigh. "I could make it easier."
Gilbert's leg twitched. "I just want to drink."
The young man's lips cut a sly grin. His hand moved up, fingers pressing into Gilbert's groin. "Is that so?"
Gilbert looked at him. Soft brown curls and tan skin, a sprinkling of freckles over his nose. Something tugged behind his navel, a pooling of heat that had nothing to do with his drink.
"Fuck it," he said into his stein and knocked it back.
.
o
.
Tilsit, East Prussia, 1869
Gilbert's leg had been acting up all day. The week's earlier warm spell had give way to a return of bitter cold by Thursday, and he felt it in his old wound, where the scar ran deep into the muscle. He no longer needed the cane to walk, but on days when the weather changed course so drastically, he moved with a noticeable limp.
He went to the pub that evening, wanting to take his mind off the dull ache, but he could not seem to shake it. Just as he could not get the image of the Lithuanian — Tauras — and the tree out of his head. The two combined made him a lousy drinking partner that night. He found himself sitting at one of the far corner tables, slouched in his seat and staring blankly at the worn wood, his right leg stretched out before him.
A shadow fell across his vision. One he initially took for a dockhand wanting to challenge him to a game of cards again. Gilbert had been a card sharp since his academy days, and he had yet to find his match in Tilsit — either at the tavern or the garrison.
As Gilbert dragged his gaze up, his breath stuttered in his chest. Looking down at him was not the woolen capped head of a waterman, but —
"Mr. Laurinaitis." He pushed himself up, wincing slightly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Dark circles hung under the Lithuanian's eyes, but that was nothing new. The man always looked like he was in need of a good night's rest. His hair was undone, hanging about his thin face like ruffled curtains.
"No pleasure. Just a chat."
"All the same to me," Gilbert remarked.
Tauras took a seat, hands curled around a glass of dark amber ale. He did not speak for a few moments, just sat staring at Gilbert, his head cocked to one side as if trying to make his mind up about something.
"Did you know?"
"Know what?" Gilbert asked.
"That they were wedding announcements."
"Of course. One does not need to know the language to recognize something like that. Especially given the care you put into the script and decoration."
"Your men certainly did not seem to think so. But you believed me."
"You seem surprised by that fact."
"I am."
Gilbert cleared his throat. "Well. You've given me little reason to doubt you." The pain in his leg ratcheted up a degree. Gilbert grit his teeth and pressed his fingers to it. "Fortunately for you," he continued, his voice edged, "I do possess a brain capable of a degree of thought, unlike the majority of my men. But that's something I hope to remedy in my time here."
Tauras' curious expression became guarded as he drank his beer.
Gilbert sighed, signaling the barkeeper for another round. He prided himself in keeping his temperament in check, and only in a few very rare times did it boil over to the point of erupting. But the ache in his leg was threatening to undo all of that.
"My apologies, Mr. Laurinaitis. I...am not myself tonight." He looked back to the bar, wondering what was taking the barman so long and half wishing Tauras would just leave, but the Lithuanian remained rooted in his seat.
Any other night, he would have welcomed the company. Relished it even. But tonight was not the night for it. There were too many questions in his head. And a doubt — that nagging doubt — itching in the back of his mind that maybe he had been wrong despite his assurances to Tauras was a feeling Gilbert did not like. One that made the world feel tilted, just slightly off. And one he had felt only once before. With Drechsler.
"...If you don't mind my asking, why did you print them in Lithuanian and not German?"
Tauras' eyes narrowed slightly. "Does it matter?"
"Were we not so close to the border, and the Russians not up in arms about every little thing, I suppose it wouldn't." Gilbert shrugged a shoulder. "But you wanted to chat, so indulge me. I'm curious."
Tauras looked like he was beginning to regret that decision and sighed. "I'm not sure how familiar you are with my country's history, but...a few years ago, there was a rebellion. To overthrow the empire occupying our lands." A haunted look crept across his face then. Tauras finished his beer, eyes sweeping around the crowded tavern a moment. "Needless to say, it failed. And many fled. Some all the way to America. Mr. Kurpys' family is there. They wouldn't know a word of German. But our language...it's the one thing we have left, that unites us. That's why I printed them in Lithuanian," he said, his expression hardening.
"My apologies," Gilbert said gently. "...And your family?"
"My family?" Tauras echoed, his voice sounding suddenly brittle. "They stayed behind."
The barkeeper set down two more beers. One for each of them, Gilbert realized. Tauras snatched his up and drank down half.
"The riverfront seems like a long way to come just for a drink," he said.
"Maybe I just like being by the water," Gilbert offered.
Tauras continued to watch him over the him over the rim of his own glass. "You're always here."
Gilbert cocked an eyebrow. "Keeping tabs on me?"
"No. Isn't that your job?"
Gilbert huffed, throwing his mug back on the table. Beer sloshed up the sides. "This is more than just some chat, isn't it? Look — what do you want from me? I'm having a shit night, and I've had a shit past couple of days. Would you rather I had not shown up when I did?"
Tauras drew back, rolling out his shoulders.
Gilbert could almost see the marks clear as day. He shut his eyes briefly, regretting having brought it up.
"Tauras, I — "
"It wasn't just the grove," the Lithuanian interjected. "The Fasching festival. The water pump. The — " A look of dawning realization spread across Tauras' face. "My sign. That first day you came to my shop and you remarked how dirty it was. You've been the one cleaning it. I don't know when — I don't know...why..."
Gilbert wet his lips and swallowed, gaze dropping to his beer.
"It was you, wasn't it?" Tauras pressed. Something demanding flashed in his eyes. The same look Gilbert had seen at the print shop, at the water pump. It was a look he had seen on his father's face — and one he had felt cross his own. A look reserved by the aristocracy to use when addressing the lower classes.
Gilbert let out a breath. "It was."
He chanced a glance at Tauras. The Lithuanian watched him warily. He tried to smile, to set Tauras at ease, but it became a pained grimace as another twinge radiated through his thigh.
Tauras blinked. "...Why — why would you do that? Why...go to all that trouble for...me?"
Gilbert drew a few deep breaths, the ache in his leg supplanted by one in his chest. He frowned slightly, brow knitting. Tauras was asking the one thing of him that he could not hide. Honesty.
Gilbert shook his head. "There's nothing to be done for it," he muttered.
He moved his leg, his calf just touching Tauras' under the table.
All sound drained away, save for the familiar dull ringing of a tuning fork struck between his ears. Gilbert forced it back. He held Tauras' gaze, waiting for the inevitable.
Waiting.
The seconds stretched infinitely on.
And Tauras had not moved.
"Ever since I first called on your shop, I...I've found myself...admiring you, Mr. Laurinaitis."
The spell broke.
The raucous din of the pub rushed back in. Gilbert blinked, forgetting where he was a moment.
The weight against his leg was withdrawn.
Tauras straightened in his seat, the guarded expression from earlier firmly back on his face.
Gilbert pressed his lips into a thin line. He had no more he could say — or wished to say — then. He stood, laying enough coin on the table to cover their drinks, and limped to the door. The blast of cold air as he stepped through came as a welcome relief to the heat burning up his neck.
"Hey!"
The voice followed him out.
"Hey!" It called again.
Gilbert was at the alley between the pub and the warehouse beside it when he turned. "Mr. Laurinaitis — "
"You don't get to do that!" Tauras fumed, advancing on him.
"Do what?"
"You don't get to — to put something like that on me and then just leave!"
Gilbert backed away. "Would you rather I have stayed? Shall we go back inside and discuss some more?" he bit back acerbically. "The matter is done." His back hit the brick wall.
"Is it?" Tauras asked, chin tipping up. He had Gilbert cornered. And Gilbert was well aware of how close Tauras was standing to him. He scanned the alley for a way out, but the Lithuanian's arms were blocking either side of him, using the wall for support.
"Yes," Gilbert panted. "I ask — please — let us leave it at that."
Tauras puffed out a laugh, his breath a cloud in the cold night air. "You dare ask anything more of me? I just wanted to live in peace." He angled his head down, looking at the Prussian from under hooded eyes. "If you only knew what it's like." His mouth collided with Gilbert's in a rough kiss. A wolf with teeth bared. Gilbert's heart, a hare in his chest, beat faster and faster.
Tauras fell against him, his frame rigid and lanky. The feeling of him pressed into Gilbert awakened buried desires. He pulled Tauras in, pulled him closer. Tauras moaned, a low and gentle sound in his throat. His body relaxed, no longer the taut wire from before. His overcoat was open, the river breeze playing with the hem. Gilbert's hand snuck in the opening, his numb fingers seeking the warmth of Tauras' back.
Something closed like a vise over his wrist. Tauras wrenched Gilbert's hand back and out to slam against the wall. A warning look flashed in his eyes as he broke away, lips still close enough for Gilbert to claim. He leaned in, but Tauras was already drawing himself up.
"I trust you are satisfied, sergeant-major," he rasped, chest heaving. "Now, I ask of you: leave me in peace." He let go of Gilbert's wrist and stumbled back. Straightening his overcoat, Tauras stalked out of the alley.
Gilbert watched him go, half anticipating a return, but the night was silent save for the din of voices on the other side of the wall. He tipped his head back and let go of a breath, staring up at the clear sky.
.
o
.
Tauras woke the next morning feeling like an axe had been driven into his skull. He pressed a hand to his forehead, his fingers blessedly cold to the touch, and rolled over with a groan. He could not remember the last time he drank like that. He pulled his quilt tighter around him and cracked one eye open, then the other. The grey light of early dawn filtered through the garret windows. Raivis' bed was empty. Tauras shut his eyes again, wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep, but the moment he did, images of the past few days erupted in his head.
The tree.
The guards.
Gilbert's face as he unlocked the cuffs.
Gilbert's face as he saw —
Gilbert's face — lips — breath — hand —
Tauras' stomach roiled. He fell out of bed, managing to find his chamber pot just in time as his gut relieved itself of last night's supper and drink.
He leaned against the bed when it was done, drawing deep, steadying breaths until the nausea subsided enough to let him stand. He still wore the clothes from the night before and decided it was good enough for that day as he tied his hair back and went to go find his cousin.
Eduard's door was open as Tauras approached the second floor landing. He frowned a moment, thinking his cousin had already left for some errand. It was not like Ed to be an early riser unless he absolutely had to. The smell of cooking soon wafted up from below, at once enticing and stomach-turning, and Tauras knew his cousin must be in the kitchen. He waited for the wave of nausea to ebb, then descended.
Pushing open the kitchen door, he saw not Eduard cooking, but Raivis. His cousin was seated at the table, reading a paper. The boy looked up from plating some sausages as Tauras entered. Raivis set them down beside a bowl of porridge and steaming cup of tea at his master's seat.
"You cook?" Tauras stated, somewhat astonished.
Raivis gave a half grin. "Yeah. Eduard's been teaching me. I'm not completely useless."
Tauras slid into his seat, both elbows leaning on the table, and brought the warm cup to rest against his forehead.
Eduard set his paper down. "Rough night?"
"Uh-huh. Rough morning." Tauras swallowed. His tongue and throat felt like they were coated in sand.
"What time did you get in?"
"Don't know. Do you have anything for…a headache?"
Eduard smirked. "It's not just a headache, cousin."
"I know, but...do you have anything?"
Eduard adjusted his glasses. "I'll have to look."
Tauras sipped his tea, then tried a small spoonful of porridge, but the moment it hit his tongue, he wished he hadn't. He pushed the bowl away and pressed the cup to his temple again.
"I might have some candied ginger. That would help with your stomach," Eduard continued. "Of course you could just close the shop for the day and rest."
Tauras shook his head a fraction. "Can't. We need the money."
Eduard cleared his throat, deciding whether to argue against his cousin's stubbornness or leave it be. He compromised by pouring Tauras a glass of water from the pitcher on the table.
"Drink as much as you can. Let me see your wrist."
Tauras eyed his cousin a moment, then let his arm flop down on the table.
Eduard pressed his thumb to a spot about two fingers' width down from the base of Tauras' hand. A strange current jolted up his elbow and back down, making his arm feel oddly relaxed.
"What did you do?" Tauras asked.
"It's a pressure point, good for nausea. Press your thumb there if you start to feel sick, since you insist on working."
"It's my own damn fault, Ed."
"I know it is. But that doesn't mean you need to punish yourself for it."
Tauras drank a few gulps of water, icy against his ragged throat, and slowly worked his way through breakfast.
.
o
.
The light pattering of rain could be heard against the shop windows. Coupled with the sudden falling temperatures, not many people would be out running errands. It would have made an ideal day to close up shop. One hour in, and Tauras was already questioning his decision to push through the work day. He had misspelled Easter on a flier for a choir concert and ran over a third of the imprints before realizing his mistake. As he was resetting the type, his elbow bumped a jar of ink, sending it spilling onto the floor. He was just finishing cleaning that up when there was a knock at the door.
Tauras nodded for Raivis to answer as he wiped the ink from his hands. The pain in his head had sharpened to an acute pressure, as if it was the thing being squeezed under the platens and screw with each pull of the lever instead of the paper.
A gust of damp, chilly air blew in as Raivis opened the door. Tauras looked over to see who would be calling on them on such a day.
And in stepped sergeant-major Beilschmidt.
Tauras felt the room dip and spin around him. A dizziness that had nothing to do with the drink from last night. He leaned against work table, steadying himself.
Gilbert was soaking wet. The only thing that seemed to be dry was his hair as he removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm.
For a moment, all Tauras could do was stare. The only sound was that of Gilbert's coat steadily dripping rain water onto the floor.
"Raivis," he managed, finding his voice at last, "go fetch some more water."
"But I just went — "
"I said leave us!" Tauras commanded.
The boy startled and bolted into the kitchen, returning seconds later with a wooden bucket. He hurried out the door.
Tauras turned his back, going back to his press and busying himself setting up for the next run. "I thought I made myself quite plain last night."
"You did," Gilbert said, taking a step closer. "I only...I wanted to apologize for my actions. What was said — it...has been difficult for me to express my affections. One does not usually speak of his admiration for another man beyond the realm of respect. And when you...followed me out, I thought — I was afraid — it was with some ill intention in mind."
Tauras turned his head a fraction, hand pausing on the press lever.
Gilbert took another step. "...But then you..."
"I think we can agree last night we were not ourselves," Tauras said. "Spurred on by too much drink, perhaps." He returned to his work.
Gilbert let out a brittle laugh. "Ah. Yes. That must have been it."
Tauras' shoulders slackened. He turned. "Gilbert..."
The sergeant-major had set his helmet on the work table. He now stood within an arm's reach. A droplet of rain ran down his throat as he swallowed. Tauras traced the motion, feeling the same pull in his chest from the water pump. The same pull he would feel around Feliks. He didn't want to. Shouldn't want to. Not with someone like Gilbert. A gendarme. A guard. One who would arrest him if he ever knew the truth...
Gilbert drew closer — or maybe he had. Tauras could see every line on his face. The faint ones around his mouth from his laugh. The way the scar on his brow made it furrow in a look of constant doubt. He lifted an ink-stained finger and traced the back of it along Gilbert's jaw, coming to rest just under his chin.
Tauras kissed him softly, his hand moving to cup the Prussian's cheek. Gilbert leaned into the touch, his whole body seeming to sigh as their foreheads rested gently together.
"I think you had better go now," Tauras said quietly.
Gilbert looked at him, his eyes dancing back and forth. Tauras could feel him wanting to say more —
"I'll have to go to the druggist's," a voice interjected, followed by footsteps on the stairs. Eduard. Tauras and Gilbert sprang apart. "I'm out of that tea for — oh! Sorry, I didn't know we had a customer."
Eduard slowed as he realized, though, who it was. "Good morning," he said tersely.
Gilbert picked up his helmet, glancing from Eduard to Tauras and back. "Morning," he returned, adopting an imperious manner. "I was just leaving. Good day, Mr. Laurinaitis."
He swept from the shop, leaving a gaping Eduard standing on the stairs. Tauras turned back to the press, hand gripping the lever, not wanting to face the disapproving look his cousin now leveled at him.
A few moments later, Raivis entered with the water bucket. The atmosphere in the shop had grown more tense since he had left. He had a feeling it was something to do with the white-haired gendarme he saw leaving. He kept his head down and rushed off to the kitchen, leaving Eduard to glare at Mr. Laurinaitis.
"Did I miss something?" Eduard said once the kitchen door swung closed.
"Ed," Tauras began, a warning edge to his voice. "Don't. Just...don't."
Eduard approached his cousin. "That man is the last person we want anywhere near our shop, and yet you — you — ugh!" He threw up his hands in exasperation. "It's dangerous. What you're doing is dangerous — "
"I haven't done anything!" Tauras fumed, rounding on him.
Eduard huffed, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I'm going to the apothecary. To get your damn tea. Try not to get us arrested while I'm gone." He swung his coat on and was out the door.
Tauras' hand still gripped the lever. He dropped his head, letting it rest against the cold metal. What was he going to do?
The kitchen door creaked open. Raivis' curly head peeked around it.
"Mr. Laurinaitis?" He was holding a glass of water as he approached. He set it down on the work table, nudging it closer to Tauras.
"Thank you," Tauras said tonelessly. His throat was feeling raw again.
"Eduard said you need to drink more."
Tauras gave him a small smile as he picked up the glass. Raivis stood there watching, hands fidgeting at his sides.
"You like him, don't you? The Prussian."
The question made Tauras pause, the water halfway to his lips.
"...I suppose I might. I don't know. I fear I may have...messed things up even more."
He had only meant to confront Gilbert last night. Had spent every evening that whole week at the pub, waiting for the Prussian to show up. And when he finally did, their talk went nothing like what Tauras had envisioned in his head. His passions were blinding him once again. As with the rebellion. As with the smuggling.
Tauras set the glass down and rubbed his head. The ache was still there, unrelenting, and thinking of these things now only made it hurt more. "Eduard's right, though. It's too complicated."
"It doesn't have to be," Raivis said.
Tauras looked at him a moment, struck by the simple and unwavering way he viewed things. And maybe he was right. Maybe Tauras was letting it be complicated. He thought back to the Fasching festival, to Gilbert trying to help at the water pump. Moments that would have been so simple, so easy — had he not been pushing back against them happening.
But then...
There was still the business of his smuggling. Something Gilbert could never know of.
Eduard was right. Tauras had taken a risk. Had risked bringing trouble down upon them all. He needed to step away. To let things cool back to how they had been.
The only trouble was, he was not so sure that could ever happen.
.
.
.
A/N An update? After a only month? It's more likely than you think! Changing up the POV really helps sometimes. Ok, onto history notes and other stuff:
So before he became a gendarme, Gil was in the Prussian army and was a veteran of the Second Schleswig War and the Austro-Prussian War (Seven Weeks' War). Also of interest, his father was a veteran of the First Schleswig War, which will come into play with regards to their dynamics more in the next chapter. For comparison, the Second Schleswig War was shorter than the first, only lasting about 8 months. Casualties on the Prussian side were a little less than 1300 dead, 2400 wounded. The First Schleswig War had around 8300 casualties on the Prussian side over a period of three years. Now, the Austro-Prussian War was the shortest of the three, lasting about a month, but it was by far the bloodiest, with nearly 29,000 men lost on the Prussian side, and over 100,000 on on the Austrian side. So yeah, Gil is definitely dealing with a bit of trauma there.
Albinism and eyesight: I did some more research into this for this fic and found some great articles and posts by people with albinism describing what it's like to see. For them, their vision is not so much "blurry", but kind of like watching HDTV at a low resolution. Some detail gets lost. One guy suggested watching a video on YouTube and knocking the resolution down to 480 to simulate what he sees. I read another post by a man with albinism who played hockey, and none of his teammates knew he had any vision problems because he never wore his glasses when he played, and learned to watch and read the other players' motions to figure out what was going on. I imagine Gil doing the same when he was in the army — just trying to downplay any vision issues he may have, and trying to adjust to the world around him. Many people with albinism do this to appear as "normal" as possible for social acceptance. They've learned tricks they can use to hide their condition. Depth perception and glare from bright light are also vision issues many with albinism experience.
Skat: a popular trick-taking card game in Germany that typically consists of three players. Two-hand Skat, also known as Offiziersskat (Officer's Skat) is played by two players.
A sporting-house is another name for a tavern that catered to gambling and prostitution
Next up: what happened after the fall out from the Beilschmidt dinner party, how Gil became a gendarme, and Eduard grudgingly helps out
Thank you all for reading/reviewing! Please let me know what you think!