This story sort of attacked me out of nowhere. I've become hopelessly obsessed with Elliot and Gilbert's relationship as of late, and given the recent events, I figured there was no better time to get this out there.

It's finally warm out over here. It's great.

I don't own anything. Lyrics are Tokyo Police Club.

.overture+

/

[the quiet kid has come to stay

what did he say?

he says, i'm lonely

says, i'm lonely]

/

Elliot's in the garden when he first hears the news. He's a curious child of eight years with eyes that already know how to flash and strike, but not without the brightest of spirits beneath a veil of mischief customary for an imaginative child. He is, after all, quite the imaginative one; dabbling in beauties from folklore anthologies to operetta playbooks to the lure of the seductive grand piano sitting grand and laconic in the parlor, he's more than well-versed in arts outside of rough-housing and lollygagging like so many other eight-year-olds are (at least, he has been told that this is how other boys his age tend to behave – he hasn't experienced his fair share of such elusive beings as of yet).

He'd been attempting to construct symphonies from the humming of dragonfly wings beating against the air, the noise lulling and melodious, never breaking tempo or falling out of key; he sort of admires them for that, because if there's anything that young Elliot Nightray loathes, it's when his own fingers slip and stumble over those magical keys lining the black and white body of a piano like clumsy deer feet on a frozen lake. New as he is to the art of music-making, the dragonflies' unshaken buzzing had lured him out of the drawing room (painting, he decided, was not in the cards for him as he'd hoped it would be), as if possessed, drugged. Of course, Elliot's far too young to know of drugs and stupors, but young enough to still grasp the beautiful onslaught of wonder that he hears leaves you at a certain age. He has a hard time believing such a thing, though, and so he chooses not to.

But as for this news – news! Such an adult word, such a concept! – Elliot thinks he'd very much like to take purchase in its legitimacy, because the second he hears the adults' murmurings over that insatiable wing-humming, his stomach leaps so high in his skinny gut that, standing stock-still by the lily patch, he burps. He doesn't think to excuse himself in his state of rabid excitement. He'll remember to later, probably, maybe, but not now, because…!

Because tomorrow morning, there will be a new boy in the manor. A new boy, a brand new one, a face he has never seen before, with new eyes and a new mouth and a new nose and new stories to tell! He can barely stand the anticipation as it swells in his stomach, higher and higher as he flits through the door, bolts through the parlor, and zips up the stairs to his bedroom. The servants ask him what he's running for, warning him in fearful voices that he'll trip and hurt himself, but he pays them not a scrap of attention.

Once contained in the quiet quarters of his room, Elliot spends hours tidying, arranging, preparing his collections of stories and trinkets and dazzling something-or-others discovered while out on one-man adventures into the forest well out behind the manor. He thinks he'll tell this brand new boy about how he started such a journey with a meager twig that had assumed the position of a dagger in his mind, how he had traded it in for a thicker, longer stick, only to be swapped out for a mighty oak branch that had scraped his palms and dirtied his clothes but made an excellent broadsword. He'll tell this boy of how he returned home as a knight, but leave out the part where he was spanked by a very irate Ernest for having wandered off for an entire evening. Yes, he'll most certainly leave that part out.

When bedtime comes, he doesn't fall asleep until dawn begins peeking its sheepish head out of the darkness. He dreams of the new boy having fire-eyes, a golden cloak, and an affinity for that infinite, humming buzz of dragonfly wings whipping in perfect syncopation to the heartbeat of spring.

/

But the boy, when he comes, doesn't live up to Elliot's expectations. At all.

For one, he doesn't think he's ever seen a boy so pale in all his life. He's completely whitefaced, lacking any sunburn or freckles or even the briefest blink of a beauty mark. He looks bloodless and depleted, tense and uptight as he sits on the edge of the study's armchair. He sits strangely, too, as if his legs are too long for his body and have to bend at funny angles in order to accommodate space in a semi-ordinary fashion. His posture is slightly ridiculous, truthfully, ramrod-straight as it is like the stiff spine of a dictionary. His clothing is ill-fitting as well, too loose in the shoulders but too short in the trousers. He can't be a day over fifteen, which saddens Elliot a little bit on its own, because isn't that well past the age when one loses their wonder completely, just as Ernest and Vanessa did?

Lurking in the doorway, half-enthralled and half-numbed, Elliot scans his face for something firebright, something knightly that may assauge some of his fierce disappointment. The boy's eyes would be the closest thing to the "bright" part of the equation, what with their colour – gold, like the crackling tail of a flame. Set up against a face so white and hair so dark (and so curly like Vanessa's; maybe they'll be friends, Elliot reckons), they serve as eerie stamps of colour that seem misplaced, almost inappropriate. They are the sort of eyes that would be much better suited on an exiled prince or tragic hero. Or perhaps a cat.

The boy looks up quite suddenly, as if seized by reality after meandering a step too far away from it, and his gaze falls directly on Elliot, still peering sneakily around the doorway. There's a brief bout of shock that passes through those golden eyes as he jumps slightly in his seat, but Elliot doesn't stick around long enough to see anything else as he gasps and presses himself flat against the wall and out of sight. It's futile, he knows it, but his fight-or-flight instinct has been honed for this very moment, he figures, and so he might as well play upon it. Besides, the boy looked as though he could use something to pull him out of the unnerving stupor he'd been in just moments before; something familiar, even, since the fleeting glimpse of panic looked as though it came just a tad too natural to him.

But just when Elliot figures the boy won't do or say anything, he hears a small, soft voice breaking the silence. "H-hello?"

Elliot lifts his head, surprised. He even sounds pale. Not moving from his spot, he says, "Hi."

There's the sound of the boy shifting in the chair, then a beat of silence, and then the light creaking of the floorboards as he stands up. Elliot hears him take a single step forward, and then stop. "Um…a-are you the youngest of the house?" he asks, voice shaking. "I haven't s-seen anyone much younger than myself so far, besides…Vincent…"

Elliot isn't so sure why his voice falters right there, but he ignores it and looks around the doorframe just enough to see the boy but not be seen himself. In his too-short trousers and too-big jacket, he stands in the center of the study, nervously staring straight ahead of him as if speaking to a ghost. Elliot thinks the sight would be amusing were it someone else, but at this very moment, it looks rather pathetic and a touch saddening.

And, well, Elliot doesn't like feeling sad, not in the slightest, so he hops into the doorway with his hands on his hips and blue eyes blazing, and grandly declares, "I'm Elliot Nightray!"

The boy just stares dumbly at him for a moment, looking very much the fool with his blushing cheeks and lost-puppy disposition; Elliot neglects to tell him that in spite of his clear discomfort, he fits in quite well with the dark, damask walls and clumsy, clunky furniture of the manor, almost as if he's here for mere decoration.

"You're supposed to tell me your name now," Elliot instructs huffily. "I just told you mine."

The boy's cheeks flush darker. He squirms in his stance, nodding so quickly that his black curls bob and bounce like oiled springs. "Y-yes," he stutters, "you're very right about that, I'm sorry." He clears his throat and offers a hand so white and feminine that Elliot could easily mistake it for his sister's. It's nothing like Elliot's, which while still very small, has at least seen its fair share of dirt and grime from his ventures into the forest. Hasn't this strange boy ever been outdoors…?

"I'm Gilbert," he says quietly. The name lacks all the pride and ferocity of Elliot, not even a glimmer of adventure shivering impatiently beneath its letters; Elliot tries it out on his own tongue, tries to imagine it being a battle cry, but is only reminded of a somber etude being played out of tune by a girl with clammy hands.

Elliot gives the hand stretching out to him a vicious shake, excavating for some strength in the boy's body – Gilbert's body, that is. He's served with an alarmed little whimper that makes him want to either laugh or pull his hair out. In any case, he does neither as he steps closer to him and asks, "Why are you here?"

It's an innocent-enough question, at least in Elliot's mind, and yet Gilbert looks at him as if stung. "Why am I…?"

"Do you live here now?"

"I…"

"Are you going to be my big brother?"

It's this question in particular that seems to tip the scales the most, because Gilbert's pink cheeks are suddenly draining out into a sickly white, and the air of the study goes pizzicato as it's plucked tight and tense above their heads. Elliot tilts his head, off-put by Gilbert's stricken stare. "Are you going to be sick?"

Gilbert seems to consider the question seriously for a moment, but eventually shakes his head and steadies himself by leaning against the cherrywood desk. "N-no, I don't think so."

Elliot wonders if that's an answer to all three of his questions, or perhaps just the last one in particular. He rather hopes for the latter case and can't place the reason why just yet. He doesn't ask, though, doesn't interrogate, because he couldn't possibly have the boy passing out on him or anything of the sort, given his current and alarming state of whiteness.

Elliot doesn't realize that he's staring until Gilbert gives a small smile and says, "I'm quite alright. Really."

Upon coming to the conclusion that it had indeed been the latter case, a conclusion that has Elliot's heart soaring for the first time all day, he reaches out for Gilbert's hand and begins pulling him eagerly out of the study. Gilbert squeaks and sputters in confusion, but Elliot is already leaping into his story of the forest and the swords he carried and the beasts he slayed on that glorious day of adventure and abandon. Gilbert listens without any interruptions as Elliot leads him through the corridors, down the stairs, through the parlor, and out the door into the garden, where the sun hangs high and heroic in the sky and the lively thrum of dragonfly wings await their newest listener.

/

That night, after their noses have been burnt and their bones have tired, Elliot asks the brand new boy if he's ever been on an adventure.

"And a grand one, too," he adds, holding up an authorative finger. "Boring ones don't count, or anything involving adults."

"Why not?" Gilbert asks. He's sitting crosslegged at the foot of Elliot's bed, his hair tied back sloppily out of his face. "Some adults that I know are very, erm…adventurous."

Elliot rolls his eyes. "Because. Everyone tells me that at a certain age, people stop wondering about things like you and I do." He glances at him curiously here, propping his chin up on his fist. "How old are you?"

Softly, Gilbert says, "Fourteen."

"Oh, you still have time, then."

Gilbert gives him a strange look at that, but Elliot asserts it with a firm nod, and the matter is settled without further pressing.

"So, have you?" Elliot asks.

Gilbert looks up, having been absorbed in his own idle thoughts. "Have I…?" Recollection passes over his golden eyes. "Oh! Have I been on an adventure."

Elliot nods fiercely. "Without adults."

"Because they don't count," Gilbert reiterates with a knowing smile. He twirls a lock of hair around one finger, his eyes drifting off somewhere above Elliot's fair head. After a moment's silence, he murmurs, "Yes."

Elliot's face lights up. "You have?"

Gilbert nods, still staring off into space. "Quite a few, in fact. Maybe even hundreds…"

"Were they grand ones?" Elliot scoots forward on the bed and leans in close to the boy's face, which has inexplicably shifted from pallid to flushed, glowing a faint pink in the hazy light of the bedroom. "Did you conquer entire continents? Did you carry a sword and slay dragons and-"

Gilbert breathes out a quiet laugh. "Well, I didn't, but the person I was with certainly did."

Elliot deflates a little, sinking back onto the bed. "Oh," he mumbles. "So it wasn't even your adventure…"

"Oh, but it was!" Gilbert's voice suddenly rises an octave, breathy and urgent, and if Elliot isn't mistaken, he thinks that might be excitement glittering in his eyes. It's such a stark difference from his usual morose expression that Elliot can't help but stare, thrown at this split-second transformation.

"I mean," Gilbert goes on, "I was usually just the…the sage or something, sometimes the medic, and Oz would be the hero…" His voice trails off, as does the vibrant glint in his eye. It's replaced with a melancholiness that Elliot finds himself in severe disagreement with, the feeling curling in his stomach like sour milk.

"Who was he?"

Gilbert turns away, one hand fluttering up to his mouth. "Hmm?"

"Who was Oz?" Elliot watches as the boy's fingers pull and twist roughly at his bottom lip; if he tugs too hard at it, it'll tear and bleed, and it'll hurt. Without thinking, he swats at Gilbert's arm to break his unnerving trance, annoyed and impatient for the rest of the story. "Was he your friend?" he asks.

Turning white again, Gilbert nods and fixes his gaze on the wall. Perturbed, Elliot taps him in the shoulder to bring his attention back to the story at hand. "What was he like, Gilbert? What kind of hero was he?"

Gilbert's head lifts slowly, his gaze finding Elliot's. He looks tired, more tired than anyone Elliot has ever seen, and the sight makes him feel a bit dizzy; he said he was fourteen, right? Doesn't he still have time?

"Every kind," Gilbert murmurs. "He's every kind of hero."

Elliot doesn't know if that's possible for just one person to be, but the whispering force behind Gilbert's stare is enough to convince him.

/

Three days later, Elliot finds Gilbert crying in the parlor. His lip is split open and oozing, and there's blood on his collar, on his hands, dripping from his teeth. He looks like a broken bird with his skinny arms wrapped around his shoulders, his rail-thin spine jutting out from beneath the lick of his hair.

In the doorway, Elliot watches him shiver and shake as his blood chills to subzero mercury. Within seconds, however, he's filled with such a liquid hatred that he wants to spit it out onto the walls and watch them sizzle and melt to the ground. It takes two seconds for him to declare death on whoever did this, but just as he's about to trek out to find the largest sword in the forest, Gilbert speaks.

"Don't," he whispers, grabbing hold of the leg of Elliot's trousers. His eyes are wild and pleading, but most of all, they're scared. "Please, Elliot. Don't. Just leave it be, it…it doesn't matter, okay?"

But Elliot doesn't deal well with that stupid thing called fear, especially not golden eyes dripping with it, and so he yanks his leg out of Gilbert's trembling grip and stomps out into the hall. His body feels jittery and overstimulated, fingers twitching and teeth grinding. He swears that he could breathe fire, just like those dragons he'd butchered during those whimsy journeys that never really happened, never really bloody happened outside of the rusting merry-go-round of his child's mind.

He doesn't realise that he's crying until the cold sting of the air puts his wet cheeks into perspective. The feeling infuriates him, makes him want to shatter glass and set fire to time itself, and before he knows it, he's crumpling to the floor and sobbing harder than he ever has in his life. Every lungful of air hurts his clenching throat; his ribs contract painfully with each shuddering breath; his brain swells and aches in his skull as it's flooded with dying thoughts of demons, monsters, and castles, all of them crumbling to soot and ash.

And then, there's someone kneeling before him, someone that smells familiar. There's a gentle hand resting on Elliot's head, stroking his hair and rubbing his scalp, and a soft voice cutting through the rushing in his ears - Ernest's voice, calm and clear even in the midst of havoc. "What's wrong, Elly?" he's asking, a laugh lurking at the perimeters of his words. "Being chased by one of your dragons again?"

Elliot wipes his nose on his sleeve and chokes out, "N-no…"

"Oh, that's not it?" Ernest ducks down low enough to meet Elliot's eye; there's a big-brother smile on his face that Elliot has grown up with, and yet comforts nothing, doesn't take away the fact that Gilbert is still bleeding in the parlor. The sheer memory of the sight sends Elliot into another crying fit, to which Ernest responds with a cooing chuckle and a quiet, "Then what on earth is the matter, Elly boy?"

"G-Gilbert – h-he's – someone hurt Gilbert!"

Ernest stops stroking Elliot's hair.

"In the parlor," Elliot gasps out, "h-he's in the parlor and he's bleeding a lot, Ernest, someone hurt him really bad-"

"He'll be alright, Elliot." Ernest stands up, the movement smooth and unruffled; he's so much more refined than Elliot will ever be, a knight all his own. "I'm sure he's only been roughed up a little. He'll live."

Elliot rubs his eyes with his fists. There's something out of place here; Ernest, he's not seeing, he's not understanding. "But…but he's-"

"Tell you what, Elly," Ernest prompts. With the goodnatured tone his voice has picked up again, it's impossible not to look up at him in awe, just as Elliot falls hopelessly victim to. So refined, so knightly. "I'll send someone to patch up little Gilbert, and in return…" He bends down so that his gaze is level with Elliot's. "And in return," he repeats, as if sharing an intimate secret, "you don't associate with him or his brother from here on out."

Elliot feels something in his chest turn cold. Unsure of what to say, he finds himself incapable of doing anything but staring at his brother, breathless and baffled.

"What do you say?" Ernest reaches out to ruffle his hair. "Does that sound like a fair trade, my good boy?"

If Ernest's suggestion is at all wrong in Elliot's mind, it's outweighed by the lingering image of Gilbert's bloody teeth and frightened eyes. Yes, he'd told him not to bother, to leave it be, but how much blood does a fourteen-year-old sage-sometimes-medic have in their pale, skinny bodies anyway?

Elliot swallows, wipes his nose, looks at Ernest.

If being a hero means making sacrifices, then consider Elliot on his way.

And he says, "Yes."

/

It takes Gilbert but a single day without Elliot's company to understand what's happening. He doesn't cry or mope, doesn't take to whining or searching for guidance (the only person willing to give such a thing would be Vincent, and he thinks he'd much rather do without that). All he does is sit in the soundless space of his bedroom, drink in the swallowing darkness of the soon-to-be midnight, and wait.

What he's waiting for, he isn't quite sure yet – his next order from Xerxes Break; a chink in the dry monotony of his new living quarters; Oz himself to come waltzing through the open window, a wordless apology in his beaming eyes as he sweeps Gilbert back to the Vessalius manor. It's the last option that sounds the most tempting, the most ridiculous, but after having free fallen into the legendary gaze of a boy made of fire and sunlight, Gilbert supposes he can't really help it.

He wishes he could help it, though. Oh, he wishes he had half the strength to even try.

He touches his broken lip gingerly with the very tip of his finger. It feels raised and swollen, abnormal, and the searing stab of pain is enough to make him drop his hand and vow to never touch it again. Within seconds, though, he's fingering the wound again, ignoring his nerves' desperate pleas for relief. The pain is almost sobering now that he's the one inflicting it upon himself.

The scab tears open and gives way to a fresh stream of blood. It drips down Gilbert's fingers, gathers in sticky pools at his knuckles, and drips hot and red onto his nightshirt. The sight of it branching out into the fibers of the cotton isn't as calming as it should be, though, and so he turns his attention back to the window and finds solace in the endless black beyond the glass. He's shaking, just a little, but he doesn't cry.

No, he won't ask Elliot about his sudden silence.

He doesn't have to.