Chapter Text
Luciano hadn't signed up for this.
“Why can’t I remember?!” Another choked sob, grieving for all the memories shoved into the toilet and flushed away, “Why am I nothing but a blank slate.”
His patience was cotton thin at the best of times. It had unraveled after an hour of this bullshit, leaving him with a bare thread he had no reason not to discard, "Stop crying. It's better this way."
“How the hell can it be better this way?! I don't even know who I am!"
How predictable. Exclamation marks, cliches and all. It had to be written somewhere; the soap opera with the perfectly tragic background, the handsome, rich victim. Gilbert was one of the lucky ones. Outside was a world swirling with the tension ridden tonnage. Politics and poverty and a thousand soldiers dying alone in the snow, without the meek comfort of a headstone or funeral. People mourned miles away, holding onto pictures and remnants of clothing. In a world like this, did he deserve any more sympathy.
"Gilbert, I'm not here to listen to your sob story, if you wanted a therapist you should've asked for one."
"I don't want a therapist, I want my life back..."
"Do you really want to remember war?" It only was half a question.
"I want to remember my family!"
Who does he think he is.
A sharp inhale. An attempt at calm. "Your family loves you. They wouldn't hired me otherwise. They wouldn't have cancelled your marriage. They love you, why can't that be enough?" The sob that followed only made him roll his eyes once more. "You would've been a broken man. I've heard that seeing your men die from a gas attack isn't exactly a pleasant experience."
"I don't care. It'd be better than this."
The memories weren't the only hing he lost in the war. Clearly.
Luciano gave up. He threw a newspaper on the bed, careful to not hit Gilbert's leg, changing the topic with blatant diplomacy. "Nothing interesting in there. You should've seen the one from November 9th - now, that was some drama."
There was the clink of pot as he poured Gil some tea. An expectant look. A pout. Eyes, wide and imploring and far too pretty to belong to a man.
"What."
"You brought chocolate last time." This Luci could deal with. The comforting back and forth of their ill suited personalities falling into place like a puzzle. They'd cultivated an interesting relationship in the past few weeks, breathing insults in tandem.
"Gilbert Junker, you are 25 years old."
"Luciano Barsotti," he still hadn't learnt to pronounce the name, "I am 25 years old and rely on you."
"Don't give me ideas. I could walk out with your mother's jewelry and leave you to die. Which, in your cause, would happen a few minutes after being stripped of my presence."
"Now you're just being rude."
"You almost got burns from trying to drink tea a few days ago." Gil seemed to be about to protest, so Luciano added, "Tea. Lukewarm tea."
There was a bit of grumbling. His face was still a blotchy red, eyes wet and one hand gripping the blanket.
Was he always like this, Luciano wondered, doe eyed and flustered? Unbeknownst to him was the faint stirring of Gil's heart and the beginning of the ruin.
"Grazie."
Luciano stopped reapplying the bandage for a second. Confused. "I speak German. You're aware?" Their jabs had been strong only a few minutes ago before Luci had begun, his touch on Gil's soft skin triggering a now characteristic silence from Gil. Odd.
A nod, cheeks painted a rosy pink.
"I thought it'd be nice."
The next day, the same happened. Luciano was unable to understand it though. His accent was horrible. "What?"
"You're nice."
"I verbally kick your self pitying ass."
A pause before a grin formed - for the first time since Luciano started taking care of him, there was a grin, not a smile. "Yea." And then there was more. A chuckle. "I really need that sometimes, don't I?"
It was the first acknowledgement of their symbiotic status. Luci wasn't entirely sure how to feel about it; he had been born and bred in stained clothing, a slight prejudice for the wealthy. He had thought that this would be a simple, easy, temporary job where he could momentarily lap up the taste of luxury. He hadn't thought he'd get used to Gilbert's easy smile and stupidly charismatic, juvenile ways. He wasn't sure how he felt about it, what was he supposed to do now.
So he did the natural thing, flick Gil's forehead with a belligerent huff, "What do you mean sometimes..."
Since Gilbert insisted on leaving the window open, Luciano had to deal with a bird that now was inside, flying from one corner of the room to the other. Much to Gilbert's delight.
He laughed; a loud, booming sound, hand half covering his mouth. It was like sunlight made corporeal.
"This isn't funny-" Luciano sounded like he was about to give up. The blanket with which he tried to shoo the small animal towards the window only succeeded in making him look even more ridiculous. "God. This is your fault."
"Don't blame God for blessing us with a new friend!"
"This sounds like a sect meeting."
The bird finally landed on Gilbert's head. Perhaps because his morning hair already looked like a nest. "It likes me..." Luciano didn't try to catch it or get it to fly away - Gilbert looked peacefully happy like this. Some sort of forest deity in a renaissance painting, the morning light shining on him, enveloping him.
Other things fell into place far too quickly. He'd teach Gil Italian. Out of boredom, naturally. Not because it was intoxicating to watch his pale lips form the words, the syntax, the careful stumbling through the mispronunciations. Reading him The Divine Comedy with a plate of warm, fresh, choclatey brioche. His eyes; staring at him with a dreamy intensity. The Thinker couldn't have looked as ruminative.
He began bringing up his childhood books. Because his current house was just too small and Gil's house was just too big. He ignored the thin layer of dust that had settled in his absence.
Grimm's fairytales looked better on this shelf anyways.
And when one day Gilbert said something that toed the border of what was okay and what was Strange, Luciano only kissed his forehead because he looked stupidly nervous and it was almost 11 pm.
"I mean it."
"I know I'm handsome. Go to bed."
"I like you." Hand shyly moving towards Luciano's, taking it. His tone bordering an illicit invitation. Here was the forbidden fruit. He hadn't taken a bite but he could feel the almost-addiction in his stomach. "I can't stop thinking about you at night-"
"Gilbert."
"-I just lie awake for hours and wish you could be next to me instead of in that room-"
"Gilbert."
"-and I want to--"
Luciano stood up, then, as if scorched. Not daring to look back at Gilbert when he left the room and went to bed.
Who does he think he is.