Work Text:
Austria, 1800
Gilbert is down three glasses of wine, trying to ignore the heavy weight on his shoulder, and watching the dancers in Roderich's little country cottage's ballroom dip and glide around each other when very a disapproving shadow falls over him.
“What,” says Roderich, sounding more annoyed than angry, “are you doing with her?” He’s speaking French, the fucker, sticking to court niceties even when there’s no reason for it.
Erszebet has fallen asleep on his shoulder. She’s drooling on the wool of his fine dark blue uniform, and her hand is resting dangerously close to his inner thigh.
“I thought it was the gentlemanly thing to do,” says Gilbert, and tries to keep his voice even. “She used to fall asleep on me like this all the time, when we were children.”
Roderich sits down heavily and lifts her feet into his lap, pulling off her slippers. His expression is soft and fond under his glasses, and seeing it focused on Erszi makes Gilbert ache, though he doesn’t quite want to examine why. He lifts a hand and tucks a bit of Erszebet’s hair behind her ear. “This isn’t like her,” he says stiffly.
“She’s been awake for the better part of three days,” Roderich says, and there’s a note of regret underpinning it. “Busy. I hadn’t noticed, or I would have made her sleep.”
“That’s her,” Gilbert tells him, “she’ll go until she drops if you don’t stop her.”
Roderich takes his glasses off and cleans them on his coat. The silence stretches thin and cool between them. He puts his glasses back on and says, “Help me take her to bed.”
Gilbert considers. Then he stands up quickly and slings Erszebet into his arms. She makes a little noise and snuggles into his neck, and his legs almost turn to water. Roderich giggles and turns it into a cough, and Gilbert shoots him a glare. “Carry her slippers,” he says flatly. He knows the stupid Austrian bastard has upwards of five mistresses, but he needn’t rub it in people’s faces.
Erzsebet is a good bit shorter than him, but even so it’s no easy task getting up the narrow stairs of Roderich’s country cottage with an armful of girl. He strains his arms, hikes her up every few steps, and curses her layers of petticoats. He’s carried her before, when they were young and she wore a boy’s cloth tunics, and it wasn’t nearly so cumbersome then—she was skinny and small, and he had just come off a growth spurt. He nudges her head into the crook of his arm, trying to make sure it doesn’t collide with the wall. Roderich’s footsteps creak on the stairs behind him—he’s always lurking, present or not, when they’re together.
Miraculously, she doesn’t wake. Gilbert gets her to her room overlooking the gardens, lays her down in bed, and breathes. He remembers giving her his cassock, centuries ago, to cover herself. There’s no need for him to be so gallant now, in this fine bed with layers of blankets.
Roderich enters—is he really winded from climbing the stairs?—sets Erszebet’s slippers down, and sits beside her on the bed. His powdered wig catches the candlelight. He still wears the stupid thing, even now. Francis has been difficult to talk to for a few years, but if there’s one good thing to come out of his bloodthirst it’s not having to wear those damned wigs anymore.
(He remembers a few years ago, Erzsi seeing him without it for the first time in awhile, how she ran her fingers over his scalp and said she’d missed his strange white hair.)
Roderich is pulling her stockings off, and Gilbert tries not to be jealous—of Roderich, for touching her so casually and gently, or of Erszebet for having someone to touch her gently, he isn’t sure. No one’s been gentle to him that way in so long.
“I’ll get the maid in to take her corset off,” says Roderich in that effortlessly noble way of his. Gilbert still can’t imitate it, even after almost a century of trying. “Let us return to the party.” He steps to the doorway, turning back. “Gilbert?”
Gilbert walks to Erzsi, swoops down and kisses her brow. She sighs a little, but doesn’t stir. He crosses to Roderich.
“What was that for?” Roderich sounds more annoyed than angry.
“It wasn’t for you,” says Gilbert, and thinks about France, and war, and how odd it is to not be trying to kill Austria. “But this is.” He seizes Roderich’s face and kisses his brow, the same place as Erzsi’s, and walks back down the stairs.