Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue... 2/?
anonymous
May 16 2011, 20:56:19 UTC
When he got back to the flat, Roderich was relieved to find that Ludwig and Feliciano were not hidden away, moaning and whispering and giggling in their bedroom, nor behaving inappropriately on the sofa, but instead, working at the kitchen table in silence. Feliciano had one of his sketchbooks spread out before him, and was gluing black and white photographs onto one of the very last pages, the tip of his wet, pink tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth. Ludwig was seated opposite with his laptop, brow furrowed in concentration, typing furiously away at an essay.
“Oh, Roderich!” Feliciano exclaimed, not looking up from his work, “How did it go, ve?” He reached for another photograph.
“Very well, thank you,” said Roderich, and went to the kitchen to dig out a snack. He wasn’t hungry at all, but instead buzzing with excited, nervous energy, and he needed something to occupy his quaking body and racing mind with. He supposed he had some homework to be getting on with, but he didn’t feel able to concentrate at all. He felt happy; really, really happy, even though nothing had happened between himself and Elizabeta. Well. He had got her telephone number, he thought, and tried not to grin like a maniac.
“Hi, Roderich,” said a quiet voice from somewhere close to the fridge.
Roderich nearly leapt out of his skin.
“Matthew - oh, you made me jump, I didn’t notice you were there.”
“Mmm,” said Matthew, and Roderich though the Canadian would have rolled his eyes if he’d been ruder. “I heard you had a date...” He smiled a bit, and leaned back against the counter, folding his arms.
“Not - not really a date. We just met up for drinks. You know. As friends.”
“Ah,” said Matthew, trying only half-heartedly to hide a smile. “Anyone we know?”
“Elizabeta Héderváry. I don’t know, do you?”
“I do!” Feliciano piped up from the table. “Ludi, are you done yet?”
“No.”
“You know her?” Roderich said, then realized that he probably sounded a little too eager. “Uh...where from?”
“Uh...once I saw her yelling at Gilbert. I think he slept with her friend and then didn’t call, or something.”
That sounded accurate.
“Oh. You don’t know her well, then?”
“Not really. I only spoke to her for about a minute, after Gilbert had escaped.” He laughed his high-pitched, musical laugh. “I told her that if you go up the fire exit round the back you can get to the big window at the back of his room. She went to shout at him some more after that, I think. Poor Gilbert! Ve, are you done now, Ludi?”
Roderich could hardly believe it. A girl who hated Gilbert Beilschmidt as much as he did? Surely it was fate!
“I didn’t quite catch that,” said a voice from the doorway, “but I’m pretty sure you just said, Where’s Gilbert? My evening has been completely lacking in awesome thus far and I need him to come along and sex it up a bit.”
“Nobody said anything like that,” said Roderich.
Gilbert, grinning wickedly, slammed the door shut behind him, and made a beeline for the fridge, dropping his rucksack and thick lever-arch files on the floor in the hallway. “Sure, Miss Priss. I believe you. Aw, what the fuck, Matt? You eaten all the maple syrup again?”
“I was hungry. Go buy some more if you’re that bothered.”
Gilbert groaned, as if going to the shop was more akin to a trek up Everest than a five minute walk down the road. “Fuck that. Aw, yes, spaghetti! Can I have it?”
Ludwig turned to face his brother, eyes narrowed. “You should have been here earlier, really. Where were you all eve- Gilbert, that’s disgusting.”
Gilbert simply smiled, stuffing more cold, sticky pasta into his mouth, straight from the pot. “’rking.”
“Working?”
“With old Fritz. We’re growing skin cells, and then we’re gonna experiment on ‘em. It’s awesome. It’ll be like that episode of Doctor Who.” He started humming the theme tune through a mouthful of spaghetti, occasionally making whooshing noises, like a TARDIS materializing.
Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue... 2/?
anonymous
May 16 2011, 20:57:17 UTC
Gilbert Beilschmidt had, somehow, been accepted onto a PhD program after completing his undergraduate study the year previously. Roderich had met him in his first year, through Ludwig, who was furious that he was being forced to share a flat with his older brother. The university accommodation staff had apologized profusely, but insisted that, due to over-subscription, a small number of undergraduates and postgraduates were being housed together. They had insisted that this situation would only last for a few weeks, but Gilbert had refused to move out, and in the end, Ludwig had ceased complaining. Ludwig snapped his brother a lot, but other than that, they seemed to get on very well, and now, Ludwig hardly ever complained at all, even though a new place had been made available for Gilbert to live in.
“Ve, you really like your professor, don’t you Gilbert?” Feliciano said. By this point he was sat in Ludwig’s lap. Ludwig seemed not to have noticed this. The fact that his left arm had snaked its way around his boyfriend’s waist also appeared to have escaped his attention.
“Yeah. He’s such a dude. I’m still trying to convince him to come out with us one night.” He turned his evil-looking red eyes on Roderich. “What about you, Roddy? Me and Francis and Antonio are going out tonight. Want to come?”
“I can’t think of anything that would give me less pleasure.”
Gilbert just laughed, and stuffed the rest of the pasta into his mouth in one go.
“Y’re boring, Roddy. C’mon, ‘av some fun, y’ fuckin’ priss.”
“Please! Will you not talk whilst you’ve got food in your mouth? It’s horrible.”
“I won’t ‘f you come out.” He words were muffled by the food stuffed in his cheeks.
“Ve, Gilbert, you look like a hamster!”
Gilbert grinned widely, winking at Feliciano, who just beamed back up at him. “See, Feliciano recognizes cute when he sees it!”
Ludwig and Roderich made noises of disdain and disgust respectively, and Gilbert laughed again, setting down the pot, now completely devoid of pasta, and his fork on the draining board for somebody else to wash up.
“Not going to bother cleaning up again?” Ludwig called after his brother, who was heading out of the kitchen and in the direction of the bathroom.
There was a knock at the door.
“That’ll be them,” Gilbert said, from somewhere down the corridor, and bellowed: “COME IN! I’M GOING IN THE SHOWER, BUT I’LL BE OUT IN TEN!”
Antonio Carriedo and Francis Bonnefoy appeared just as Gilbert left, both holding large, full bottles of alcohol. Feliciano leapt up with a cry of joy to hug Antonio, and immediately dragged him around the other side of the table to look through his art book. Francis deftly opened one of the bottles, and began offering it round. Matthew, Roderich noticed, shrank back a little, cheeks bright red when the other blond turned to him, smiling in what he seemed to think was a wholly winning manner, rather than a creepy and threatening one.
“J-just one then...thanks, Francis...” Matthew seized the glass as though it was a lifeline in a time of great peril.
Antonio and Feliciano were cooing excitedly over something across the kitchen. Gilbert, through the bathroom door, was serenading the building at large with a loud and thoroughly tuneless rendition of some apparently popular song Roderich thought he’d had the misfortune to hear on the radio sometime before. Francis laughed, loudly and obnoxiously. Roderich saw Ludwig grit his teeth and tap even harder at the computer keys.
Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue... 2/?
anonymous
May 16 2011, 20:59:43 UTC
“Et vous, Roderich?”
“No thank you,” Roderich said stiffly. Francis spoke English perfectly; he only used French when he was a, talking to another native speaker, or b, trying to worm his way into some unfortunate soul’s pants.
Francis turned towards Ludwig, but even before he could open his mouth, the taller blond had snapped his laptop shut, grabbed his copy of Marxism and the Philosophy of Language, and stalked out of the room, muttering angrily to himself. Roderich managed (somehow) to squeeze past Francis without being groped, and went into his bedroom.
His phone lay still on top of his neatly made bed. Roderich supposed he had simply forgotten to pick it up as he’d rushed to get out of the flat earlier. He went to lay down, scooping it up in his left hand as he did so. The black biro marks were as clear and unsmudged as they had been when Elizabeta had pressed them into his skin just an hour or two...or three...before. The very edges of the numbers were only just beginning to seep into the lines and tiny pores criss-crossing the backs of his hands. Smiling to himself, he opened up a “new contact” option in his phonebook, and typed in Elizabeta’s name, followed by that exciting sequence of numbers.
Save.
He laid his head back slowly on the pillow.
Outside his door, the flat was brightly lit, shaking with laughter (and occasionally Ludwig’s irritated demands that Gilbert and his friends keep it down, for God’s sake!) Roderich, though, felt somehow separate from the mayhem just a doorway or two away from his position on the bed. His body still buzzed as though he’d just won a music competition - and that was when it hit him; that was exactly what it felt like. It felt as though attaining Elizabeta’s phone number was a major victory for him; he even started to look around the room for a place to put his newest trophy.
“Now next time you want to meet up, just give me a call.”
Her words echoed around his head he gazed distantly from wall to wall. How soon should he call her? Not right away, he thought, then cursed himself. It was no wonder Gilbert called him that stupid nickname...Miss Priss...oh, damn it, he did sound just like a woman!
He groaned, and rolled onto his side. Perhaps he should wait for her to ring him - no, she couldn’t do that, he’d forgotten his phone, and still hadn’t bothered to learn his number, so he hadn’t -
Roderich sat up. That was it! The perfect excuse! Ignoring the chorus of “Miss Priss, Miss Priss, Miss Priss,” that was currently circulating inside his skull, he shifted his knees up to his chest, and began typing.
Hi, Elizabeta. Remembered i didnt give you my number so im texting you now before i forget! Roderich
He pressed send before he had chance to change his mind.
Outside, he could hear three pairs of feet clunking their way across the wooden floors, and out into the corridor beyond. Thank God; perhaps now there would be some peace and quiet in the flat - for once. Roderich sat up, and flopped into his chair at his desk, pulling out a sheaf of notes and his latop. He had an essay he hadn’t quite finished yet, on Haydn and his influences. Or something like that - he couldn’t quite remember. He opened up the Word document, creatively titled “Haydn etc,” and was just scrolling down to see where he’d left off when his phone buzzed.
He managed to ignore it for about thirty seconds before grabbing it in excitement.
Haha, thanx! You seem like the type to forget a lot of stuff! :p we should go out this wkend or something what do u think?
Roderich didn’t go out on weekends. Neither did he go out on cheap midweek student nights. He didn’t go out on weekdays either. He also had a lot of written work to catch up on this week, and on Wednesday they would be beginning their compositions; something that would, if he wanted to get the best possible marks (which he did, of course), take up every last minute of his free time.
Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue... 2/?
anonymous
May 16 2011, 21:02:14 UTC
He quickly tapped out a response.
Sounds good. Im free anytime.
He pushed his phone to the other side of the desk, and typed a few words on his essay. The cursor flashed slowly. He tapped the “back space” key, huffing to himself.
Buzz.
Ok! :) well shall we meet bout 9 at the main entrance? Il txt u when im ready tho.
Roderich’s evenings usually consisted of arguing with Gilbert until the latter went out, finishing an essay, listening to music, and hanging around the music department one the days he got wind of a professor staying late. Usually his many awards and first-place trophies were enough to charm the staff into allowing him an extra fifteen minutes at the piano.
He absolutely detested “going out.” He just didn’t see the point of it. Even during freshers’ week, he’d spent as much time as possible confined to his room, or glued to the piano (or even, God forbid, his crappy plastic keyboard.) Grinding the night away in a hot, sweat-filled room, being blinded by alternate explosions of strobe lights and blackouts whilst ricocheting from side to side as hundreds of strangers threw their elbows into your face just wasn’t his idea of a good time. And everyone was so - so loud. Why anybody would want to drink so much alcohol they were incapable of keeping their stupid mouths shut, or even standing upright was a mystery to Roderich; a complete and utter mystery. He thought about the number of mornings he’d been woken up to the sound of Gilbert or Ludwig, or sometimes even Matthew, throwing their guts back up, or Feliciano crying for his boyfriend, arms wrapped around his pounding head. Why, he wondered, Why would anybody put themselves through that? It was a waste of money, as well. The amount of money others spent on nights out in the city made him feel rather faint. Taxis, new clothes, club entry, drinks, food -
“Oh, no.”
Roderich realized, with a sudden, terribly unpleasant jolt, that he had just agreed to go out at the weekend with Elizabeta. He was going to be one of those damned fools spending far too much money, drinking far too much alcohol, talking (screaming) far too loudly...
Re: Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue... 2/?
anonymous
May 16 2011, 21:45:25 UTC
Oh my goodness, I am enjoying this a little too much. I love the slow building of the characters and of the relationship. PLus you included GerIta and the Bad Touch Trio. I might love you a little anon. Eagerly awaiting an update.
Re: Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue... 2/?
anonymous
May 17 2011, 02:33:42 UTC
YAY~ Update ^.^ I have to say I am in love with your GerIta. I know that they are by no means the focus, but I think that makes me like it even more. Little snap shots. Anyway, loving the start of AusHun. Though I feel bad cuz I'm looking forward to how they fall apart, lol. OH WELL *shrugs*
Ohmygosh, poor Germany. I can imagine the last thing you'd want to hear when hungover is a crying Italy. His cries are annoying most of the time! (:
I'm loving this. It's like, even though they'll end up breaking up, Hungary is going to have a strong effect on his life. It's really telling a story and it feels like it could be real, to me.
“Oh, Roderich!” Feliciano exclaimed, not looking up from his work, “How did it go, ve?” He reached for another photograph.
“Very well, thank you,” said Roderich, and went to the kitchen to dig out a snack. He wasn’t hungry at all, but instead buzzing with excited, nervous energy, and he needed something to occupy his quaking body and racing mind with. He supposed he had some homework to be getting on with, but he didn’t feel able to concentrate at all. He felt happy; really, really happy, even though nothing had happened between himself and Elizabeta. Well. He had got her telephone number, he thought, and tried not to grin like a maniac.
“Hi, Roderich,” said a quiet voice from somewhere close to the fridge.
Roderich nearly leapt out of his skin.
“Matthew - oh, you made me jump, I didn’t notice you were there.”
“Mmm,” said Matthew, and Roderich though the Canadian would have rolled his eyes if he’d been ruder. “I heard you had a date...” He smiled a bit, and leaned back against the counter, folding his arms.
“Not - not really a date. We just met up for drinks. You know. As friends.”
“Ah,” said Matthew, trying only half-heartedly to hide a smile. “Anyone we know?”
“Elizabeta Héderváry. I don’t know, do you?”
“I do!” Feliciano piped up from the table. “Ludi, are you done yet?”
“No.”
“You know her?” Roderich said, then realized that he probably sounded a little too eager. “Uh...where from?”
“Uh...once I saw her yelling at Gilbert. I think he slept with her friend and then didn’t call, or something.”
That sounded accurate.
“Oh. You don’t know her well, then?”
“Not really. I only spoke to her for about a minute, after Gilbert had escaped.” He laughed his high-pitched, musical laugh. “I told her that if you go up the fire exit round the back you can get to the big window at the back of his room. She went to shout at him some more after that, I think. Poor Gilbert! Ve, are you done now, Ludi?”
Roderich could hardly believe it. A girl who hated Gilbert Beilschmidt as much as he did? Surely it was fate!
“I didn’t quite catch that,” said a voice from the doorway, “but I’m pretty sure you just said, Where’s Gilbert? My evening has been completely lacking in awesome thus far and I need him to come along and sex it up a bit.”
“Nobody said anything like that,” said Roderich.
Gilbert, grinning wickedly, slammed the door shut behind him, and made a beeline for the fridge, dropping his rucksack and thick lever-arch files on the floor in the hallway. “Sure, Miss Priss. I believe you. Aw, what the fuck, Matt? You eaten all the maple syrup again?”
“I was hungry. Go buy some more if you’re that bothered.”
Gilbert groaned, as if going to the shop was more akin to a trek up Everest than a five minute walk down the road. “Fuck that. Aw, yes, spaghetti! Can I have it?”
Ludwig turned to face his brother, eyes narrowed. “You should have been here earlier, really. Where were you all eve- Gilbert, that’s disgusting.”
Gilbert simply smiled, stuffing more cold, sticky pasta into his mouth, straight from the pot. “’rking.”
“Working?”
“With old Fritz. We’re growing skin cells, and then we’re gonna experiment on ‘em. It’s awesome. It’ll be like that episode of Doctor Who.” He started humming the theme tune through a mouthful of spaghetti, occasionally making whooshing noises, like a TARDIS materializing.
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“Ve, you really like your professor, don’t you Gilbert?” Feliciano said. By this point he was sat in Ludwig’s lap. Ludwig seemed not to have noticed this. The fact that his left arm had snaked its way around his boyfriend’s waist also appeared to have escaped his attention.
“Yeah. He’s such a dude. I’m still trying to convince him to come out with us one night.” He turned his evil-looking red eyes on Roderich. “What about you, Roddy? Me and Francis and Antonio are going out tonight. Want to come?”
“I can’t think of anything that would give me less pleasure.”
Gilbert just laughed, and stuffed the rest of the pasta into his mouth in one go.
“Y’re boring, Roddy. C’mon, ‘av some fun, y’ fuckin’ priss.”
“Please! Will you not talk whilst you’ve got food in your mouth? It’s horrible.”
“I won’t ‘f you come out.” He words were muffled by the food stuffed in his cheeks.
“Ve, Gilbert, you look like a hamster!”
Gilbert grinned widely, winking at Feliciano, who just beamed back up at him. “See, Feliciano recognizes cute when he sees it!”
Ludwig and Roderich made noises of disdain and disgust respectively, and Gilbert laughed again, setting down the pot, now completely devoid of pasta, and his fork on the draining board for somebody else to wash up.
“Not going to bother cleaning up again?” Ludwig called after his brother, who was heading out of the kitchen and in the direction of the bathroom.
There was a knock at the door.
“That’ll be them,” Gilbert said, from somewhere down the corridor, and bellowed: “COME IN! I’M GOING IN THE SHOWER, BUT I’LL BE OUT IN TEN!”
Antonio Carriedo and Francis Bonnefoy appeared just as Gilbert left, both holding large, full bottles of alcohol. Feliciano leapt up with a cry of joy to hug Antonio, and immediately dragged him around the other side of the table to look through his art book. Francis deftly opened one of the bottles, and began offering it round. Matthew, Roderich noticed, shrank back a little, cheeks bright red when the other blond turned to him, smiling in what he seemed to think was a wholly winning manner, rather than a creepy and threatening one.
“J-just one then...thanks, Francis...” Matthew seized the glass as though it was a lifeline in a time of great peril.
Antonio and Feliciano were cooing excitedly over something across the kitchen. Gilbert, through the bathroom door, was serenading the building at large with a loud and thoroughly tuneless rendition of some apparently popular song Roderich thought he’d had the misfortune to hear on the radio sometime before. Francis laughed, loudly and obnoxiously. Roderich saw Ludwig grit his teeth and tap even harder at the computer keys.
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“No thank you,” Roderich said stiffly. Francis spoke English perfectly; he only used French when he was a, talking to another native speaker, or b, trying to worm his way into some unfortunate soul’s pants.
Francis turned towards Ludwig, but even before he could open his mouth, the taller blond had snapped his laptop shut, grabbed his copy of Marxism and the Philosophy of Language, and stalked out of the room, muttering angrily to himself. Roderich managed (somehow) to squeeze past Francis without being groped, and went into his bedroom.
His phone lay still on top of his neatly made bed. Roderich supposed he had simply forgotten to pick it up as he’d rushed to get out of the flat earlier. He went to lay down, scooping it up in his left hand as he did so. The black biro marks were as clear and unsmudged as they had been when Elizabeta had pressed them into his skin just an hour or two...or three...before. The very edges of the numbers were only just beginning to seep into the lines and tiny pores criss-crossing the backs of his hands. Smiling to himself, he opened up a “new contact” option in his phonebook, and typed in Elizabeta’s name, followed by that exciting sequence of numbers.
Save.
He laid his head back slowly on the pillow.
Outside his door, the flat was brightly lit, shaking with laughter (and occasionally Ludwig’s irritated demands that Gilbert and his friends keep it down, for God’s sake!) Roderich, though, felt somehow separate from the mayhem just a doorway or two away from his position on the bed. His body still buzzed as though he’d just won a music competition - and that was when it hit him; that was exactly what it felt like. It felt as though attaining Elizabeta’s phone number was a major victory for him; he even started to look around the room for a place to put his newest trophy.
“Now next time you want to meet up, just give me a call.”
Her words echoed around his head he gazed distantly from wall to wall. How soon should he call her? Not right away, he thought, then cursed himself. It was no wonder Gilbert called him that stupid nickname...Miss Priss...oh, damn it, he did sound just like a woman!
He groaned, and rolled onto his side. Perhaps he should wait for her to ring him - no, she couldn’t do that, he’d forgotten his phone, and still hadn’t bothered to learn his number, so he hadn’t -
Roderich sat up. That was it! The perfect excuse! Ignoring the chorus of “Miss Priss, Miss Priss, Miss Priss,” that was currently circulating inside his skull, he shifted his knees up to his chest, and began typing.
Hi, Elizabeta. Remembered i didnt give you my number so im texting you now before i forget! Roderich
He pressed send before he had chance to change his mind.
Outside, he could hear three pairs of feet clunking their way across the wooden floors, and out into the corridor beyond. Thank God; perhaps now there would be some peace and quiet in the flat - for once. Roderich sat up, and flopped into his chair at his desk, pulling out a sheaf of notes and his latop. He had an essay he hadn’t quite finished yet, on Haydn and his influences. Or something like that - he couldn’t quite remember. He opened up the Word document, creatively titled “Haydn etc,” and was just scrolling down to see where he’d left off when his phone buzzed.
He managed to ignore it for about thirty seconds before grabbing it in excitement.
Haha, thanx! You seem like the type to forget a lot of stuff! :p we should go out this wkend or something what do u think?
Roderich didn’t go out on weekends. Neither did he go out on cheap midweek student nights. He didn’t go out on weekdays either. He also had a lot of written work to catch up on this week, and on Wednesday they would be beginning their compositions; something that would, if he wanted to get the best possible marks (which he did, of course), take up every last minute of his free time.
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Sounds good. Im free anytime.
He pushed his phone to the other side of the desk, and typed a few words on his essay. The cursor flashed slowly. He tapped the “back space” key, huffing to himself.
Buzz.
Ok! :) well shall we meet bout 9 at the main entrance? Il txt u when im ready tho.
Roderich’s evenings usually consisted of arguing with Gilbert until the latter went out, finishing an essay, listening to music, and hanging around the music department one the days he got wind of a professor staying late. Usually his many awards and first-place trophies were enough to charm the staff into allowing him an extra fifteen minutes at the piano.
He absolutely detested “going out.” He just didn’t see the point of it. Even during freshers’ week, he’d spent as much time as possible confined to his room, or glued to the piano (or even, God forbid, his crappy plastic keyboard.) Grinding the night away in a hot, sweat-filled room, being blinded by alternate explosions of strobe lights and blackouts whilst ricocheting from side to side as hundreds of strangers threw their elbows into your face just wasn’t his idea of a good time. And everyone was so - so loud. Why anybody would want to drink so much alcohol they were incapable of keeping their stupid mouths shut, or even standing upright was a mystery to Roderich; a complete and utter mystery. He thought about the number of mornings he’d been woken up to the sound of Gilbert or Ludwig, or sometimes even Matthew, throwing their guts back up, or Feliciano crying for his boyfriend, arms wrapped around his pounding head. Why, he wondered, Why would anybody put themselves through that? It was a waste of money, as well. The amount of money others spent on nights out in the city made him feel rather faint. Taxis, new clothes, club entry, drinks, food -
“Oh, no.”
Roderich realized, with a sudden, terribly unpleasant jolt, that he had just agreed to go out at the weekend with Elizabeta. He was going to be one of those damned fools spending far too much money, drinking far too much alcohol, talking (screaming) far too loudly...
He winced.
Ok, sounds good!
The funny thing was; it sort-of did.
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Eagerly awaiting an update.
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I'm loving this. It's like, even though they'll end up breaking up, Hungary is going to have a strong effect on his life. It's really telling a story and it feels like it could be real, to me.
And I love smart!Prussia, haha.
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All the personalities are perfect, my dear, simply perfect. Brilliant work, babe! Can't wait to see it continue!! <3
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