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Roderich's heart sunk and sunk all the way down.
"You've never been to a museum or modern gallery-"
Correction: He hadn't ever done that because his interest in art that wasn't old impressive realism was nonexistent and the belongings of long dead people.
He abhored the directionless figures; the messiness of the symbolism. Abstract nonsense was still, in his opinion, very much nonsense
Something that Gilbert would’ve known if he had listened to him.
"--So I figured, since it's here and all, we could go. It's this, uh," he glanced at the brochure. Squinting his eyes. "Expre- Expressionism. It's expressionism and Surrealism from the 20s to 30s. Doesn't that sound great?"
"Absolutely." His tone was flat, but his boyfriend seemed too busy rambling to notice.
They went in and were greeted with paintings that clashed with their colours and forms. Red and green, blue and orange. Roderich cringed.
"Oooh, look," Gilbert dragged him to a bigger painting. The House Angel. A gigantic being with multiple limbs, one coming from its leg. Two faces and one leg mid-air, arms raised, mouth open. "What do you think?"
"I think this was an awful idea."
"Second world war? Yes, of course, but what do you think about--"
"Why are we here."
It caught Gil off guard. He looked at him, eyes widened in confusion. "Cause it's our anniversary. I told you."
"Gilbert," he sighed. Took off his glasses and pretended to clean them. The house angel didn't look all that content now. "What made you think I'd like this. You're the one into this-" he gestured at the sculptures and paintings "-abstract historical aspect."
"So?" Gil folded the brochure and put it in his pocket.
"And I'm not. I told you. It's just - nonsense to me. Did you not listen to me or do you just not give a damn about anything but your own interests."
"Oh, now I'm the one who doesn't give a damn?" People were looking. A couple's fight framed by a destructive, clashing monster.
"Yes, Gilbert, ignoring your friend's opinions and wishes counts as not giving a damn."
"Gotta love how you don't even call us boyfriends."
Sighing again, Roderich kept going, passing another painting with the same obnoxious bright tone. Europe After The Rain, a grim prophecy of a fragile dry land, corrals and ruins squeezed together. Frail and out of place and not meant to be there.
"What? You're hurt because I refuse to lie back and take it anymore?"
"That was uncalled for."
"Is that your standard response to anything slightly critical?"
"'"You're hurt because I don't fucking lie down and take it," isn't exactly criticism. You're making this about yourself again." Picasso showing one of his lovers with a formless body, spiky hair and wide open mouth. Maybe pained, maybe annoying, pissed off and annoying and red green red green, it didn't. Fit.
"Okay, let me put this in other words; you're not always fucking right and I'm so sick of pretending you are just so you don't drive off to some hotel and leave me the bill. Is that better? Stop walking, I'm trying to talk to you, is that better!?"
He raised his voice, attracting more morbid curiosity from visitors. "Like you notice what I think or feel. It's been a year and you haven't bothered to get to know me."
"It's been a year and you haven't bothered to try and get out of your little comfort zone!"
"That's-"
"You act like a child! You need the shitty comfort comfort blanket of what you’re used to, oh, - and everyone to agree with you - yes, Roderich, you're right, Roderich, you're such a fucking genius - or you'll throw a temper tantrum--"
"You're the one yelling in a museum but sure, go off."
"Then you'll give me a silent treatment, what's the difference!"
"The difference," he stopped, turning around. "Is that you're embarrassing and unreasonable."
Gilbert stared. In an instant, he got the keys to his car and threw them for Roderich to catch. "Good thing you won't need to deal with your embarrassing egoistical boyfriend for today, then." And he left with that, leaving Roderich in the overwhelming red-blue of the room.