A/N Oh my God, another multi-chapter. Why, WHY do I do this to myself? I must be a masochist…..Um, yeah, so expect the following from this story: language fit for a sailor, slow updates, angst, funny moments, sad moments, drag queens, cabaret/Golden Twenties Berlin, drinking, smoking, mentions of prostitution, did I mention angst? – ya know, the usual stuff from me :-D This is also my first attempt at overtly stated BL, so I apologize if it lacks the gross amount of smut you seek...but I'm trying! Eventual pairings will be Austria/Prussia and Germany/Russia with brief mentions of others. So you have been warned, dear reader.

The title is subject to change, but for now, it's "Bye Bye Blackbird" (interesting side note, there's been debate about the meaning of this song – some attribute it to a prostitute getting out of 'the business').

The name of Roderich's cabaret is called The Supper Club. Traditional supper clubs were social clubs with a high class image. Obviously, Roderich's is not that kind of club.

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own it.

Berlin, 1924

It had been a decent crowd for a Tuesday night. Roderich leaned against the bar, closing out the evening's earnings – sixty percent for the House and forty percent to be divided amongst his performers at the end of the week.

Yes, fairly decent indeed.

Roderich had to admit the fact his little club could even draw a crowd during the week was remarkable. A year ago, The Supper Club could barely hold its own against the other cabarets. Roderich fought to keep performers, writing bad cheques to his creditors while giving the girls the meager House takings. Then that bitch Inge began demanding a higher cut, and what could he do? She was his star singer, the only reason they had any customers. He had to keep her, though it nearly bankrupted him.

His shows weren't bad – the performances were solid, the costumes tastefully revealing. They simply lacked originality – something he'd often been criticized for during his days as a conservatory student. He needed a hook. Something to draw the audience in. Something none of the other clubs had.

He found it after a fortuitous encounter with a pretty little Spanish boy named Antonio.

Inge had been demanding more money, and his creditors, sick of his excuses, began taking their payment out on him.

That night he'd been lucky – only a bloody nose and lip and bruised ribs. Not like he hadn't been through worse. Still, the threat he could lose everything hung over him, blindly driving him down that alley, needing a good fuck to clear his head.

And then he saw Antonio, silhouetted by the full moon's silver light. A thin halo of caramel skin setting him apart from his alabaster companions.

Roderich wanted him. He had no money, but God he wanted him. And he would take him. He would take Antonio and promise to keep him all night and reward him handsomely for his services. Then Roderich would leave him before morning. He had done it before. Roderich's manner – his aristocratic grace, his calm, reassuring speech – made people trust him. And he had always been able to spot a fool. Antonio, handsome as he was, was still a fool.

That night, though, when the Spaniard saw the bruises, something snapped in Roderich. Maybe he'd been held by that soft gaze for too long. Maybe he'd been bewitched by those magnificent green eyes. Whatever it was, it broke his cool, detached countenance, and Roderich cried. Cried in front of a complete stranger, telling Antonio everything, and Antonio held him until he fell asleep.

In the morning, Roderich awoke to the press of warm skin against his own. Antonio stroked his hair, singing a Spanish song low and deep. Roderich leaned into the other's chest, feeling it thrum against him. He asked Antonio to sing louder. The Spaniard obliged.

Antonio had an incredible range, going from baritone to tenor and quite possibly countertenor if he was pushed.

Through the still half sleep filled haze coupled with the dreams he'd had the night before and the Spaniard's mesmerizing voice, an idea struck Roderich.

He asked if Antonio would like to sing at his club – in women's clothes. The time was more than right to broaden his audience, topaccept the growing subculture of which he'd been a part for nearly a decade (or, if he was honest with himself, his whole life.) Roderich was certain Antonio could capture a crowd, and his svelte physique paired with that elusive voice would keep the straighter patrons guessing well into the night. Antonio agreed and admitted, with a laugh, when he was a boy he used to try on his sisters' skirts when no one was home.

In a matter of months, Roderich fired Inge, turned his finances around, and the garrulous Antonio took over as the master of ceremonies (dressed as a man) before darting backstage and re-emerging as "Antonia" – the star of Roderich's cabaret.

Antonio/Antonia proved an instant hit. Roderich found his hook. He booked more drag performers until they dominated his line-up, keeping only a few of the regular girls for the "straights."

Roderich allowed himself a brief smile as he tucked that night's House earnings in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Not bad indeed for a Tuesday.

He put the performers' cut in the safe under the bar, tucking it away with Monday's earnings and noticing the pile from tonight was far larger. Roderich's smile grew wider. Friday was payday for the girls. They would surely be in for a real treat this week.

Roderich poured himself a tumbler of crème de menthe schnapps. It seemed Berlin was finally waking up. The economy was on the mend. Groups of artists and intellectuals emerged from the chaos of the previous years – a bourgeoisie class demanding the new, the avant-garde, and Roderich was all too happy to give it to them, provided the capital continued to flow in his favor….

A throbbing ache in his leg interrupted Roderich's reverie. He groaned to himself, taking his tumbler and limping over to the piano by the stage. He lowered himself onto the bench with a relieved sigh. Fucking shrapnel. The army surgeon said to use a cane whenever the flare-ups started. But he was twenty-eight now, still in the prime of his life. He shouldn't need a cane to walk. He wasn't a fucking cripple. He was just unfortunate...

Well, fortunate than most….

At least it wasn't his right leg, so he could still press the piano pedals comfortably enough….

And that was his consolation prize for fighting in the Great War!

How comforting to know, despite everything he'd lost – his wealth, his estate, his place at the conservatory – how comforting to know he could still play the piano in this shithole club for his moronic customers.

Lacking originality indeed! Oh, how he'd love to take his compositions to the conservatory now. How he'd glory to see the horrified looks in their grey faces at the discordant sounds spewing from his keyboard.

Beauty had become a thing of the past. The Dadaists had it right: art is shit. And he profited magnificently as a shit-peddler.

Roderich sipped his schnapps.

When did he become so cynical?

Another throb.

Oh, yes…that.

He never proclaimed himself a soldier. He was never one for hunting or fishing or any activity requiring physical prowess. That was why he spent hours playing piano as a child. That was why he went to the conservatory. That was why, for two years, his family's influence kept him out of that damned war. He knew he was canon fodder the moment they got him. But somehow he survived, returning from the Italian Campaign with a wonderfully mangled and shattered leg and a newfound cynicism.

Roderich downed the remaining alcohol, resting his fingers on the black and white keys. He stared at them, wondering if he could still play his old repertoire from memory. It had been so long, and the music he played for the cabaret shows was laughably easy and damnably catchy. Roderich feared, for a moment, the jazz tunes he'd been playing had replaced his beloved Beethoven and Chopin.

He let his fingers wander over the keys, listening to the notes as his right and left hand worked their way up the keyboard, keeping an octave apart. A slurred C, followed by E and G. But there was something between the E and G, wasn't there? Something not quite right, but it brings the piece together….

What was it?

Ah, yes. A-flat.

Then after the G, move up to middle C on the right, with the left hand following….

He was playing Chopin.

Slowly, the introduction, deceptive in its serenity, yet ever building in intensity until the keys became fire and his hands were gasoline, possessed by a mad, frenetic force. His fingers danced in the upper keys, little tongues of flame licking the tips. His shoulders tensed. His hands moved down to the lower register, down into the deep red pit. Down into Hell. Down into the Darkness to seek out the Light. To seek an answer – the answer to question at the beginning. He was nearly there. The Darkness began to abate. Only a few more measures until the Light. Until his answer.

Roderich's eyes burned, wide and alive and half-manic, behind his glasses. His mouth watered – the metallic taste of desire dampening his throat as he sought the finish….

A knock from the club door, sharp and stinging against the dark notes, brought his performance to an abrupt finish.

Roderich's fingers slammed against the keys, a cacophony of notes destroying his ending.

"What!" he bellowed, chest heaving in anger.

The knock came again, though haltingly this time.

He wondered if it was Antonio. Wondered if he'd forgotten something….

Roderich's shoulders slumped as he pushed himself up from the piano bench. He snatched up his tumbler and limped up to the bar to re-fill it. If it was Antonio, he could wait.

A third knock. This one slower, almost teasing in a way.

"I heard you," Roderich snipped.

He smoothed his hair back and reached behind the bar for his cane as a pre-caution.

Roderich wrenched open the door. "What in God's name is so blasted important - ?"

"I thought you had better manners, Specs," came a drawling reply.

Roderich's eyes widened at the sight – the face – that greeted him. A face he hadn't seen in three very long years….

A pale head of hair shone silver beneath the cold, moonlit sky. A slanting grin animated the man's deathly pale visage. Despite the dark, Roderich could see a faint light shining from the other's odd eyes. Eyes that looked red when the light hit them just right, Roderich remembered. He adjusted his glasses in an effort to collect himself before addressing the other man.

"Gilbert," he said flatly. "What are you doing here?"

"Straight to the point, as usual," Gilbert sighed. "Ain't you gonna invite me in first? Wine and dine me, like the good old days?"

Roderich blocked the door, knuckles whitening as he gripped his cane tighter.

"C'mon, Roddy," Gilbert said, giving Roderich's shoulder a playful jab. "It's been three years. You're not still angry are you?"

"I'm always angry…."

"Ha! Always the joker, Roddy." Gilbert slapped Roderich's cheek. "That's what I miss about ya."

Roderich's firm stance faltered the minute Gilbert touched his face. The other man, seeing his opportunity, pushed his way into the club, nearly knocking Roderich over.

"Oh, sorry. Forgot about that leg o' yours."

"…I'm sure," Roderich muttered darkly as he closed the door.

A small cough, coming from the street, startled him. Whirling back around, Roderich pulled the door open once more and blinked.

Staring back up at him was a boy. A Gilbert in miniature, though admittedly, his hair wasn't as pale, and his eyes were blue.

"Lutz!" Gilbert hissed. "I told you to stick close. Get your ass in here!" He grabbed the boy by the arm and dragged him into the club.

Roderich heard the child mumble something about not wanting to be rude.

"Christ, if anyone sees you out this late, they'll have my head." Gilbert steered the boy to a table by the stage, plunking him into a chair.

"I could've stayed home…."

"It's not that I don't trust you, Lutz, it's just I don't trust other people."

"But I have school – "

"So, do your homework."

"I finished it."

"Then read, or something."

"I don't have a book – "

"Excuse me!" Roderich interjected.

Both blondes snapped their eyes up to his, looking at him like he'd just arrived.

"Just what the hell is going on? Gilbert, who is this boy?"

The older blonde's shoulders sagged. A pained look darkened his eyes for a moment as he chewed his bottom lip.

Gilbert turned back to the boy and muttered, "Lutz, just…just put your head down and go to sleep, okay? I gotta talk to Roderich."

The boy nodded, crossing his arms on top of the table and resting his head. Gilbert stroked his hair, face softening as he watched the boy's eyes slide shut.

"Pour us a drink, would ya, Specs?" Gilbert said, suddenly jerking his head up, a cocky smirk replacing his gentle smile.

Roderich was still anchored to the door. "I only serve paying customers."

"What makes you think I won't?"

"Because, Gilbert, your reputation precedes you, wherever you go."

"Well, then, would you serve an old friend?"

"Friend!?" Roderich scoffed, limping towards Gilbert. "We shared a trench – "

"Among other things…." Gilbert sneered.

"I was married! And then you…you – "

"I merely showed you what everyone else already knew and what you failed to see."

"You ruined me! I came here because of you. I left Eisenstadt because of you. I gave up everything to come here and play piano in this stupid club because of you!"

"I forced you to stop pretending! You can't have the best of both worlds. Eventually, you'd have to choose. I just helped precipitate it. Admit it, Roddy. This way is easier."

Roderich stopped, afraid of what he might do to Gilbert if he got too close….

He would throttle him (he would hold him close.)

He would punch his face (he would kiss his cheek.)

He would knee him in the groin (he would run his hands through his hair.)

He would press his lips to that crooked grin….

No. He would surely strangle Gilbert. The man who cost him everything. He would choke him until the light left those strange, beautiful eyes.

Roderich's fingers twitched around his cane. He never entertained the idea of killing another man, even during the war. But ex-lovers could not be considered human, could they? No. They were demons sent back from hell to torment the living. Why, in God's name, did he have to show up now? What more does he want from me?

Christ, he needed a drink.

Roderich hobbled up to the bar.

Gilbert, taking this as a tentative invitation, followed behind, keeping a good distance between himself and the Austrian's cane.

Roderich settled himself behind the bar, taking out a cigarette case and pouring himself a double whiskey.

"So…I see you changed the name o' this place." Gilbert cautiously approached the bar, hands stuck deep in his front pockets.

"Yes," Roderich said, concentrating on lighting a cigarette. He leaned against the back counter, eyes guarded as he watched Gilbert.

"Sounds kind of American, don't it?"

"Well, what with the popularity of jazz and mass consumerism, it seemed appropriate," was the clipped response.

Gilbert slowly nodded. His efforts at small talk were back-firing.

Awkward silence fell over them.

Gilbert eased himself onto a bar stool, resting his arms on the bar top. He began picking at a cuticle on his forefinger, pulling until the skin finally gave way. A droplet of crimson pooled to the surface. He stuck the finger in his mouth to stop the bleeding then dropped both hands to his lap. He tucked his hands under his legs, hunching his shoulders, and looking around the club as if it was his first time there.

Gilbert's fidgeting proved unnerving. Roderich stubbed out his cigarette, mustering up every ounce of disdain he possessed.

"Why are you here, Gilbert?"

Gilbert's eyes stopped their sweep of the club. He brought them up to meet Roderich's briefly before twisting around to stare at the boy sleeping at the table.

Roderich followed his gaze. He knew Gilbert's actions. He knew when the Gilbert needed to tell him something but his pride prevented him from doing it. This was one of those times. Roderich should have known. Gilbert could be so childish….

"Who is he?" Roderich asked, keeping his tone firm. Gilbert always responded better to authority….

The blonde slowly turned back around, eyes fixed on some invisible spot on the bar top's surface.

"…My brother." Gilbert began chewing his lip again.

Roderich's face blanched. In their years together during the war and the brief time after, he never once assumed Gilbert had a family. For the longest time, Roderich was quite sure the pale man was an apparition, something conjured up by his mind to help him through those dark days spent in the mud. Gilbert came and went as he saw fit. Nothing, not even he, Roderich, could anchor that man. And Gilbert certainly never mentioned anything regarding parents or a sibling. Roderich couldn't even remember seeing the other man write a letter home during their time in the trenches.

"How old is he?" Roderich asked.

"Eleven. He was definitely a surprise to Mutti und Vati." Gilbert's lips parted with a dry chuckle. "So much so, the old man died a month before he was born."

Gilbert clasped his hands in his lap, staring down at them.

Roderich reached under the bar for his best whiskey and poured two doubles, handing one to Gilbert.

"And your mother?" he asked, careful to keep his voice casual now, or else Gilbert would shut him out.

"…Died in December of '17."

"I'm sorry to hear it." Roderich went around to the other side of the bar, sitting beside Gilbert. He lit a cigarette and offered one to Gilbert.

They sat in silence for some moments, the occasional clink of a glass filling in the spaces some words simply could not.

"…He's the reason I left," Gilbert said at length.

"Who?"

"Ludwig." Gilbert nodded over at the boy. "Last I heard, before I got shipped from the Eastern front to Italy, was that our mother had sent him to stay with her brother. She was in bad health even before I left, so it was for the best. I meant to tell ya, Roddy. Swear to God, I did. But…I didn't think it'd take this long…."

"Gilbert, what -?"

"I had to go to Dresden. I had to get him! I knew if I told you, you'd want me to wait, but I couldn't wait. I had to get him away from that drunk sonuvabitch. I shoulda got him the minute I got home. But, Uncle made a decent living. Lutz was well-provided for. Went to a good school and everything. And I got to visit him, at least. I didn't want to mess it up. I always mess shit up. Then our neighbor writes me after I moved up to Berlin. Says Lutz's lookin' skinnier, sicker. One time she swore she saw a black eye. I know Uncle liked to drink, but I never thought he'd turn into one of those mean drunks, you know? I guess he snapped one day…Lutz didn't tell me everything, just that Uncle yelled a lot, saying what an ingrate Lutz was and how he was making Uncle go bankrupt 'cause he had to take care of him for his sister. But when I went to go get him, that crazy bastard wouldn't give him up! I fought so hard to get him, but the courts refused. They said he was 'in a stable living environment.'" Gilbert snorted, downing the rest of his whiskey.

"You should have come to me," Roderich said quietly. "I could have paid off that judge – "

"Roddy, you barely had enough money for rent after your folks cut you off."

"I had some stashed away. I bought this place from the owner, you know."

Gilbert grinned. "Knew you were holding out on me. Stingy bastard."

"How did you get Ludwig back? Gilbert, you didn't kidnap him did you?" A note of panic colored Roderich's voice. That would be just like Gilbert, bringing the police to his doorstep….

"Nah. Lucky for me Uncle dropped dead of a heart attack a year later. I took Lutz and we moved back to Berlin."

Two years. Gilbert had been back for two years, and he was just now showing up? What the hell had he been doing in that time? Well, not that Roderich cared. They had been through, right? Doesn't one person leaving usually signal the end? Even if Gilbert's departure was for moral reasons, the fact remained he left Roderich. Left him and made no attempt to contact him. Yes. They were through. If Gilbert had come here to offer his apologies, he could keep them. Roderich had let him in once, and once was all it took to be betrayed.

The silence in the room returned to that awkward level. Roderich swirled the dregs of his whiskey around in his glass, pretending to be interested in their contents while busying himself mentally by replacing all of the internal defenses Gilbert removed the minute he began his story. He was afraid to speak, fearing the delicate wall around him would shatter. But it was Gilbert who cut through the quiet this time.

"You asked me why I was here, Specs."

Roderich felt himself nod.

"Well, word on the street is, this is the place to come for work."

Roderich faced Gilbert, tilting his head back to stare down at the pale blonde beside him, a haughty sneer in place. Old habits were often a source of comfort. "'Word on the street'? Gilbert, surely you haven't degraded yourself that low by resorting to prostitution?"

"No! 'Course not! I just meant…I heard this place was doin' well, and…well, you know I can't sing or dance…but if you needed a doorman or somethin', you know I'd be good for it."

Roderich considered the offer. There were some nights the crowd could get a bit rowdy. It usually fizzled before escalating, but it still made Roderich nervous. And he knew Gilbert was more than capable of handling unruly masses….

"Be here tomorrow night at eight," Roderich said.

"Serious?"

Roderich cast Gilbert a sidelong glance that said 'Don't ask me again.'

"Shit, that's fuckin' awesome!" Gilbert leapt from his seat, throwing an arm around Roderich's neck. "Thank you, Roddy."

The pale man went to wake up his sleeping brother when a thought occurred to him: "What should I do about Lutz? I don't want to leave him alone."

"He can stay backstage. The girls will look after him."

Gilbert's face broke into a wide grin. He turned back around and gently shook his brother's shoulder. "C'mon, Lutz. Time to go."

The boy muttered something incomprehensible, trying to swat away Gilbert's hand.

"Don't make me carry you," Gilbert teased, poking Ludwig in the ribs. The boy swatted Gilbert's hand again, burying his face into his arms.

Gilbert sighed and scooped the child up in his arms, heading for the door.

Roderich saw him out.

At the door, Gilbert paused, facing Roderich.

"Thanks once again. You don't know how much you saved me."

The blonde extended a hand. Roderich took it, the dry, cracked skin so familiar beneath his touch. For a moment, he stared down at their hands, clasped in a gesture so formal it seemed strange for them.

Roderich hesitated.

They should be sharing a kiss, not a handshake.

He took a tentative step forward. But Gilbert's hand was already slipping from his as the pale blonde turned and headed out into the night.

Roderich watched Gilbert's retreating form, shutting the door only when he could no longer see that head of almost-white hair.

Roderich returned to the bar, taking his place on his stool. Two empty glasses stood before him, light shining through them, reflecting jagged shapes on the counter. His eyes caught on Gilbert's glass. On the fingerprint smudges and ghost impression left by a pair of chapped lips.

Was he ready to do this?

He had no choice.

The deal had been made.

He reached for his glass and the bottle of whiskey beside it. He filled the tumbler, admiring the brown liquid. One more to help you sleep, son.

Roderich raised the glass to his lips (glowing red under the house lights), drinking deeply.