Chapter Text
Gil, is that you?"
Gilbert quietly cursed as he shrugged out of his coat, then turned. "Sorry, Fran, I didn't mean to wake you. I got an earlier flight," he added, explaining the late hour.
"I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow morning," Francis said, stifling a yawn. He was a slender silhouette in nothing but Gilbert's old football jersey. The frayed hem whispered against his bronze thighs as he walked forward. "Welcome home, chér," he smiled, soft and sleepy. He met Gilbert halfway across the flat and stretched up to give him a honeyed kiss. His touch was slow and gentle and his fingertips smelled faintly of lemons. Gilbert relaxed into it and returned the smile.
"Thanks, schatz," he said, burying his face in Francis' long, loose curls.
"Is everything okay?" Francis asked, pulling back after an extended moment. His cornflower eyes seemed to read discomfort in the German's face, his posture, but Gilbert dismissed it.
"It's nothing," he said, hooking a curl behind Francis' ear. "I'm just... glad to be back. I'm tired."
"Then come to bed," Francis purred, walking backwards and pulling Gilbert with him.
The bedroom was dark, untidy—Gilbert grimaced, kicking aside a pair of discarded briefs—and occupied.
"Hmm, Fran—?"
Antonio's sleep-heavy voice rose up from the bed, followed by a deep, breathy noise as he forced himself to his elbows, his naked back arched, his muscles rippling beneath skin the colour of cocoa. He blinked at the doorway. "Gil? Hey, you're home," he said, rubbing his eyes. A smile stole over his lips. "When did you get in?"
"Just now, schatz," Gilbert said, leaning across the large bed to kiss Antonio. The Spaniard cupped the back of his head, drawing him in. His lips were puckered and petal-soft, his tongue slick and tasting of spearmint.
"Did you—" yawn "—have a good trip, cariño?"
Gilbert's smile tightened. "Sure," he said insincerely, but Antonio's olive eyes were already falling closed.
Gilbert undressed as Francis crawled back into bed. Antonio spared him a kiss and a caress, his hands going to Francis' tapered waist beneath the cotton blanket. It was thin; Gilbert could see the shape of his boyfriends through it. The light from the corridor glinted on the gold cross at Antonio's throat—the only thing the Spaniard wore—before it clicked off, and Gilbert squeezed in between them. He looped an arm around them both and pulled their lean, warm bodies snug against his sides. Antonio shimmied down and wrapped an arm around Gilbert's middle, like a—very hard, rugged—pillow; Francis rested his head on Gilbert's chest and exhaled a soft sigh of contentment.
"We missed you, chér."
"We're glad you're home, cariño."
Gilbert held his breath for a moment, feeling all of the stress and anger and tedium of the past week, the long journey, churning inside of him, then he let it all out on a long, deep sigh. He hugged his sweet, beautiful boyfriends closer, and said:
"Fran, Toni? There's something I need to..."
He stopped. Francis tipped his head up, concerned; Antonio rubbed his abs, which tickled. Both were heavy-eyed and drowsy.
"What is it, Gil?"
Gilbert pressed his lips together, feeling guilty. He knew that he should tell them. He would have to tell them eventually, preferably before the rent was due. But not tonight. Instead, he said:
"Ich liebe dich."
"Ich liebe dich," murmured Francis and Antonio clumsily, falling asleep.
The next morning, Gilbert buried his anxiety in his boyfriends. He ran his hands up Antonio's firm thighs, anchoring himself at the Spaniard's taut, round backside. He leant over Antonio, pushing his forehead between his pronounced shoulder-blades, pressing his lips to the Spaniard's hot, sweaty skin. He groaned as Antonio's hips rolled back against him, his ears full of the man's heavy panting. Beneath them both, Francis moaned in soft, breathy pleasure as Antonio pumped into him, his artist's hands coiled urgently in the Spaniard's hair, his shapely golden legs flung over Antonio's shoulders, tense and writhing. He looked beautiful, his face flushed, his blue eyes half-closed but bright, his long curls spread over a pillow. "Oh, Toni!" he gasped, the climactic cry fuelling Gilbert's desire. "Fran—O-oh! G-Gil!" Antonio's whole figure shuddered, sending a pulse through Gilbert's body. He grasped him tightly and grunted, spilling himself into his boyfriend.
"Fuck," he gasped in relief, in appreciation. He kissed the crown of Antonio's head, then forced himself to get up. "That was good," he grinned, stretching (flexing) his muscles. "I'm going to shower."
When he returned, Antonio and Francis hadn't moved. They were still in bed, lounging in the early-morning sun, talking and laughing softly, nearly nose-to-nose as if they were in a black-and-white film. "Amor mío de mi vida," Antonio whispered, sucking on Francis' plump bottom lip. The Frenchman's fair face was dappled with sunlight, his lashes fanning over his pink cheeks. They were both careless and lazy and beautiful and happy; Gilbert didn't want to disturb them.
"Hey, uh..."
Antonio turned his dishevelled head, looking up; Francis opened his eyes, a demure smile on his red, swollen lips.
Gilbert lost his nerve. "Which one of you wants to make me breakfast?" he teased, affectionately ruffling both of their hair.
Antonio rolled his eyes, then rolled off of Francis. Francis pushed himself up, kissed Gilbert's nose, and said: "Crêpes?"
Gilbert ate crêpes, went for a run, fidgeted through a foreign film, had sex again—it started in the kitchen and finished in the living-room—and then rejected Francis' suggestion that they all go out to a restaurant for supper.
"Why not?" Antonio asked. He was lying on the floor in his black briefs, looking like a lounging underwear model with his head pillowed on folded arms, an impish grin on his face.
"Let's go out to celebrate you being home," Francis pressed, curled up close to Gilbert on the sofa, wearing Gilbert's discarded white t-shirt. It was too big for his thin, elegant figure and clung in folds to the curves of his body. "You've been gone for a fortnight—"
"No," Gilbert said, firmer than he intended.
Antonio sat up, perplexed. Francis said: "Gil?"
Gilbert shook his head dismissively and tried to get up, but Francis pushed a hand to his chest and Antonio hugged his left leg.
"Please, mon coeur," said Francis, looking at him with vulnerable eyes, "tell us what's wrong."
"Did something happen?" Antonio asked, resting his chin on Gilbert's knee.
Gilbert turned his face away. He felt Francis' long fingers stroke his head, smoothing back the fine hair from his sensitive scalp. He felt Antonio gently patting his leg in encouragement. But all he could see in his memory was his father's stern face from a year ago. All he could hear was the man's deep, disapproving voice:
"Your personal-life is none of my business, Gilbert. It doesn't concern me what relationships you choose, as long as you understand the consequences and accept the responsibility. If you choose to keep two partners, then you will take care of two partners. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir. I will."
He had been so confident in his promise back then, and so certain of his decision to invite his two boyfriends to live with him. He had been so sure he could take care of them, provide for them, so honoured they had chosen him, of all people; that they had walked up to him at that festival, when they could have chosen anyone on the street; when they were being ogled by everyone on the street. They looked like they had just strut off a runway, all blinding smiles and summer tans and bright, beautiful eyes sparkling with lust and laughter. And mischief. That sweaty autumn night had been filled with promiscuous mischief. He hadn't expected either of them to call him the next day, but they had—together. And they wanted to see him again; and they wanted to talk to him and play with him and kiss him again; and Gilbert's heart pounded like a drum as he met them on that hot, crowded street in Barcelona. Back then, he couldn't not stare at them in fascinated wonder.
Now, over a year later, he didn't want to look at either of them when he confessed:
"I... kind of... lost my job."
"What?"
"Why?"
Gilbert shifted uncomfortably. "I yelled at my boss. A lot."
"Oh, Gil," said Francis, disappointed.
"Again?" said Antonio, looking sad.
Gilbert swallowed and looked down in guilt. "Yeah. Sorry, I just..." He clenched his fists. "I'm sorry."
A long, tense moment of silence stretched between them. Gilbert felt horrible, for letting his temper get the better of him—again—but, more so, for letting down the two people he loved most; the two people who trusted him. It was Gilbert's paycheck that paid their rent; Gilbert's job that provided them with benefits and security; Gilbert, who had promised to take care of them both if they would move to Berlin, which they did. They had forgiven him when he got arrested for drunk, disorderly, and destruction of property; when he had broken his collarbone in a bar fight; and when he had walked out on his last job in a rage. The more he thought about his behaviour over the past two weeks of working abroad, the worse he felt about the direction his career was taking. He felt like a failure. His father, his whole family—except for his brother, maybe—would have confirmed that he was. His debilitating pride was proof enough of it, which was ironic at best and cruel at worst. He had tried so hard to bite his tongue and curb his temper, but he had failed. Failed himself, his family, and the people who relied on him; the two people he loved.
"It's okay."
Francis' tone was soothing. "It's okay, chér," he repeated, turning Gilbert's head. "I can go back to work until you find another job. It's no trouble. I don't mind."
"And I can take more shifts at the bar," Antonio offered, crawling up onto the sofa. "We're going to be fine."
"I'm sorry," Gilbert said quietly. "I shouldn't have... Fuck." He covered his face. "I'm sorry I keep doing this."
"Gil, it's not—"
"It's my fault, Fran. It's always my fucking fault."
"Well, yeah, maybe..." admitted Antonio, "but that doesn't mean we don't love you, Gil. Sometimes you make bad decisions, but usually you make good ones. I mean, you chose us," he teased, resting his chin cheekily on Gilbert's shoulder. "That was a pretty good one, right? Right?" he goaded, dragging down on Gilbert's wrist. He pouted.
Gilbert looked down at him in disbelief. He thinks that it was me who chose them—? A reluctant grin curled his lips.
"Yeah," he said, threading his fingers through Antonio's, "that was alright."
"You'll find something new," Francis said, kissing his cheek, "something that's right for you. Until then, let us take care of you for once."
"Yeah, you can rely on us sometimes too, you know. That's what makes this—" said Antonio, taking Francis' hand, too, and holding all three over Gilbert's heart, "—so special. We're here to support you. We'll always be here."
"Because we love you," Francis finished.
Gilbert unclenched his jaw, swallowed. Without a word, he wrapped his boyfriends in his arms and pulled them closer to him. He hugged them tightly; maybe too tight. Maybe too fast or too reckless, but none of it mattered, because they had all chosen each other. An embarrassing noise escaped him when he tried to breathe in, making his chest shudder and squeak. It sounded almost like a sob, but Francis and Antonio didn't comment.
"Danke, meine Lieben."
He kissed Francis, then Antonio.
"So, are you ready to celebrate being home with your hell'a fine boyfriends now?" Antonio winked. "My treat, cariño."
Gilbert smiled, for real this time. "Yeah," he said. "That sounds good."