#indiscriminately and sometimes (rarely but it happens) that gets thrown back in his face and the consequences beared are Big

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

and say it with me now: it works out more in his favour than not. say it with me now. it worked out for him to assume the best of people more often than it didn’t work out. percy got through every bad patch because he assumed the best of someone and they delivered and helped him or came back to help him when he needed them.

percy isnt stupid or unobservant he just assumes the best of people until proven otherwise

[lying-monsters]

For @mayumisatosan

mayumisatosan.tumblr.com/post/26805624037/request-for-a-pruaus-fanfiction

A short story involving a lot of pining. I hope you enjoy it!

Proofread by the amazing @hetaliapurgatory

Life has thrown Gilbert back at Roderich a multitude of times. The man is a force of nature, bringing war and disruption like discordant notes in a sonata. Of course, now that the wars are over, they’ve settled into a strange sort of harmony.

Roderich has had him as a knight and a rival and a bitter enemy and an ally, conquered and been conquered, hated him and feared him. He more than anyone would understand that sometimes you can wage a war that sends you both spinning and still run into their arms when their Wall falls-and so here they are, playing duets on the weekends and filling the silences previously between them with conversation more and more.

All that said, Gilbert has rarely, if ever, been physically thrown into his space as he just was. Roderich stares in disbelief at the man prone on the ground, who looks absolutely delighted to see him. Roderich tells himself he doesn’t know how to feel in return, which is mostly true, and squashes the fluttering happiness that he is not alone, wherever he is. ‘Hello, little master,’ Gilbert says. His ghostly hair is spread out in every direction. It makes him look almost angelic. ‘What are you doing here?’ Roderich demands, stifling an involuntary yawn-it’s still early. ‘Did France attack you, too? Where are we?’ ‘I was thrown here,’ Gilbert says. ‘France got me, I guess, but that was because my back was turned. He knew he couldn’t win in a fair fight.’ He stops as if to congratulate himself. ‘And I don’t know, little master, but I think we’re stuck for the time being.’

‘Can you get us out?’ Roderich asks. Gilbert cranes his head to see him better, and Roderich reluctantly kneels down beside him. ‘No.’ Gilbert still looks far too happy. ‘My lockpick is at home and West took away my gun last week for irresponsible shooting.’ He rolls onto his front, red eyes glittering in a strange way. ‘At least I found you.’ Roderich doesn’t have a response to that, and Gilbert laughs. ‘Did you think I was worried?’ ‘I doubt the mighty Prussian soldier concerns himself much with me,’ Roderich says defiantly. ‘You’re wrong,’ Gilbert tells him offhandedly.

‘What?’ Roderich asks into the sudden, conspicuous silence. ‘West would have my head if anything happened to you,’ Gilbert responds after a long pause. He finally looks away. His pale skin betrays the red high in his cheeks. Roderich remembers how lying looks on him from their younger days.

Thinking of the modern day is strange. They have so much history, tangled and often full of old wounds, but here they are, having been kidnapped by France. Alone.

When Gilbert’s eyes are not on his, his thoughts are clearer, less tangled, but only barely. Gilbert is all clean-cut, sharp lines.

Roderich looks away as well and tries to calm his heartbeat. It is ridiculous to notice this now. Of course, it is not just now-he has been noticing it for years. ‘We can’t get out?’ he asks weakly. ‘Not unless you’ve got any aces up your sleeves.’ Gilbert looks at him critically. Roderich, suddenly self-conscious, tries to fix the buttons on his undone and crumpled shirt and untangle his twisted sleeve. Gilbert’s eyes are piercing. ‘You don’t need to do that,’ he says, sitting up. ‘Here, do you want me to help?’ ‘What?’ Roderich asks again, almost unwilling to believe he had heard correctly. ‘My old uniforms had tons of buttons. You’re lucky the awesome me is here.’ Roderich makes a face at him, but he’s somewhat relieved that Gilbert is simply annoying him again. ‘I promise you, I am-’ ‘Hold on.’

Gilbert interrupts him by pulling off the remains of his T-shirt. Roderich claps his hands over his eyes, a red flush stealing over his face. ‘Kindly give me some warning next time!’ he nearly shrieks. ‘Calm down, I’ve still got my shorts on. Not like that rag covered much anymore.’ ‘Put it back on!’ Roderich demands. His voice cracks embarrassingly on the last word. ‘No, really. Are you scared of seeing the top of my chest or something? And it’s way too hot in here. I want to leave it off.’ ‘It’s…it’s strange,’ Roderich says, even though Gilbert is right and it feels hot in the room. That might just be his embarrassment. It’s more the idea that Gilbert has no shirt on that twists his insides into knots. It has been a while since he would have seen him like that. ‘You’re so uptight,’ Gilbert snickers, such an obvious edge of soft, curling amusement in his voice that Roderich wants to-

Well, he’s not sure what he wants to do. He’s not sure of anything right now. ‘I am not! You’re just vulgar.’ ‘Do I really look that bad?’ Gilbert asks. Roderich can’t resist the shadow of uncertainty underneath his brashness, and opens his eyes. He fixes on the long, rippling scar slashing his chest into two. Gilbert’s side of the Wall scar-longer, deeper, and worse healed than his brother’s.

He shuts his eyes again. The sight of Gilbert’s scar hurts in somewhere deeper than his bones. ‘No,’ he says. It comes out as a croak. ‘No, you look fine.’ ‘Just fine?’ His voice is back to hoarse, prideful teasing. ‘Please put your shirt back on.’ ‘Fine, fine. You’re such a priss.’

‘You can open your eyes now.’ ‘Are you sure you’re decent?’ ‘It doesn’t cover much, I told you, but it’ll stop you from staring at that eyesore on my chest.’ ‘It’s not like that,’ Roderich protests, opening his eyes more out of surprise than anything else-he still wasn’t sure Gilbert had put it back on. Gilbert cocks his head like a bird, confusion warring with something sadder. ‘I told you, you look…fine.’

Fine is not the word to describe him in any stretch-Gilbert is too iron-wrought for war to be delicate, and his Wall scar is a different matter between them, more suited to different nights.

Roderich’s mind goes back to those months after the Wall fell, and his memory is full of strange softness and promises and he pushes it away; he can’t think of that now. He can’t think of anything but the present, and even then he can only keep going along whatever path they walk now. A particularly bizarre one at this moment, especially.

‘I know I look awesome,’ Gilbert says, but Roderich notices the quick flash of his eyes to make sure his scar is still covered. ‘Here, you still want help with the buttons?’ ‘I can manage.’ He’s more relieved they have stopped talking about Gilbert’s scar. ‘You sure?’ Roderich hesitates, irritated with Gilbert for proposing idiotic things and more irritated with himself for entertaining them. ‘I need to fix my sleeve first,’ Roderich mutters, now almost indiscriminately furious with himself for agreeing. Gilbert stares at him blankly. ‘I need to take this off,’ he clarifies. ‘Well, go ahead.’ Gilbert sits back expectantly, and heat rises to Roderich’s face again. ‘Close your eyes,’ he grinds out. ‘It’s not like we’re strangers, Roddy.’ ‘Don’t call me that,’ Roderich corrects automatically. ‘And-and even though you do not understand the concept of modesty, I do. So I’d like you to close your eyes.’ ‘Fine, fine. I won’t look, cross my heart.’ Gilbert turns away, making a show of his closed eyes. ‘If I see you looking, I will…’ He casts for an appropriate punishment. ‘I’ll tell Ludwig you stole his beer.’ ‘You wouldn’t!’ ‘Don’t look!’ Roderich reminds him again, trying to keep as covered as possible as he struggles to fix his sleeve. Gilbert laughs at him, and Roderich pokes him in the back. He doesn’t know how he even feels about his terrible laugh now. ‘Hey!’ Gilbert blindly swats at him. ‘That’s low, little master!’ ‘So is laughing at me!’ ‘Laughing at you is my right as your…as Gilbert,’ Gilbert retorts. ‘Aren’t you done yet?’ ‘I’d be done faster if you stopped sniping at me!’ Gilbert snorts, but is quiet. Roderich untwists himself and looks up to say so, but is stopped by what he sees.

It has been a while since he’s seen so much of Gilbert. He’s shockingly pale, and his old battle wounds stand out like errant strokes of ink on a manuscript, but the word that comes to mind when Roderich looks at him is lovely.

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, knowing his breathing is quick and that to try to escape the sincerity of his thoughts is futile. ‘You can open your eyes,’ he says, and Gilbert does with a smile not as sharply teasing as normal. ‘Are you really sure I’m just fine?’ he asks. Roderich decides not to answer. Gilbert grins at him and leans over to fix his buttons. His hands are deft and strong, and Roderich shivers. ‘Your hands are cold,’ he lies as an explanation. It’s not completely untrue, but it is not the reason for his butterflies. ‘Sorry.’ Gilbert rubs his hands together to try to warm them up. ‘Better?’ ‘Thank you.’ Still, Gilbert’s sureness is threatening to make the fluttering in his stomach something more, and Roderich gently swats his hands away before the buttons are finished. ‘I’m not done!’ Gilbert complains. ‘You said it yourself-it’s too hot to do all of them.’ ‘Fine.’ Gilbert doesn’t sit back, though. He hovers, a strange smile on his lips, gazing up at him from behind long pale lashes. Roderich doesn’t feel remotely cold anymore.

He breaks their gaze, head fuzzy, thoughts spinning. Gilbert grabs his shoulder. ‘Hey. Look at me.’ Roderich allows himself to glance over. Fascination gleams in Gilbert’s red eyes, and he moves even closer, reaching out a hand to cup his face. Roderich can barely move or breathe or think. He dimly realizes Gilbert has backed him up against the wall, and that he should be scared if he wasn’t so confused over the gentleness of Gilbert’s touch. ‘Gilbert?’ he rasps. Gilbert’s childish fascination changes into something searching, then satisfied. He leans closer, and Roderich should push him away because he’s crude and boorish and they are longtime enemies, but…he doesn’t. He reaches up to touch his hand, to confirm that this is all happening-

‘You’re like a shy little bird!’ Gilbert exclaims suddenly, delightedly pulling on his cheek. Roderich does push him off now, face flaming, cursing himself to high heaven in the name of every deity he knows for thinking about Gilbert in such a way. Gilbert tugs his cheek again, but with less force, trying to turn him to look. ‘A hell of a lot cuter, though,’ he murmurs. If he was red before, Roderich doesn’t want to know what he looks like now. Gilbert doesn’t seem to realize what he’s said, and continues to try to make Roderich look at him. Finally, he does, out of frustrated confusion, and is arrested by the shade of those red eyes. Exactly like that brilliant drop of amber he’d seen in the shop one day during the war, a long time ago. A simple, sentimental trinket that he shouldn’t have bought with vague ideas of giving it to Gilbert, and is now tucked deep in his drawers, wrapped in clothes with bullet wounds.

He could give him it once they got out.

Roderich doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He shouldn’t think of Gilbert in that way, but the touch of his hand is making his thoughts spin.

Gilbert looks almost serious for once, nearly bewildered, but offers his usual grin, stops pulling his cheek, and taps Roderich’s chest to make him lean back against the wall. ‘You can sleep if you want,’ he invites. ‘Don’t worry about France. Nothing will happen to you while the awesome me is around.’ ‘You’re a fool,’ Roderich tells him, for lack of words to express exactly how tangled his feelings are. It’s true, as well. Gilbert laughs and settles against the wall beside him, bumping shoulders and kicking his feet out. He looks sideways, and seems to stop before saying whatever likely rude thing he intended. Roderich’s stomach twists in a way that is not entirely unpleasant, and he knows that when they get back home, he will end up giving Gilbert the tiny gem, no matter what teasing it will invite from him. ‘Austria…’ Gilbert says, and there’s a hint, a suggestion, of a tremor in his voice. For once, Roderich doesn’t break their gaze first, and lets Gilbert scrutinize him for whatever he is trying to understand.

Gilbert’s red-amber eyes skip over his hair, his jawline, never meeting his. They finally slow at his mouth, and Gilbert swallows, meets his eyes for a fraction of a second, and abruptly turns away and looses such a colourful string of language that all of Roderich’s proper upbringing is not enough to ignore some of the choicier words. It’s almost impressive. ‘Hey, little master?’ he says at the end, and without waiting for acknowledgement, continues. ‘Aren’t I supposed to be your rival?’ ‘Gilbert-’ Roderich is beyond confused. ‘You do know Fritz is going to kill me for-’ He gestures generally at all of Roderich before slumping back against the wall and closing his eyes. Roderich still doesn’t understand and doesn’t know what the answers will be if he asks.

All he knows right now is that of all the people the world has thrown against him, he’s glad it is Gilbert here with him.