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The Awnings We Build Together
The first time Barok stands with Albert in the rain, they are both in school. Klint is still alive; everything is as perfect as could be in a broken world, because Barok hasn’t noticed how broken everything is yet.
Albert always pays more attention to his studies than to the world around him, and Barok isn’t surprised to find his friend standing in the door of the science department, frowning out at the downpour outside.
“Missing something?” Barok moves up silently behind the other man, walking on tiptoe to keep his boots from clacking.
Albert startles, squeaking in a very satisfying manner. “B-b-barok!”
Barok smiles, holding out a hand to make sure Albert doesn’t fall through the door and out into the rain. “Last I checked, yes.”
“Sorry, I didn’t notice you.” Albert turns another furious glare at the rain. “I was busy trying to decide if it’s even worth attempting to make my next class.”
“That depends on what your next class is.” Barok pulls the umbrella from behind his back. “And if you’d be willing to let me walk you to it.”
“Oh, I couldn’t! It’ll be so out of the way.” Albert waves a hand. “It’s a foreign language class—science in translation. It’s fascinating, and I’d really hate to miss it, but—”
Barok grabs Albert’s arm, dragging him forward—through the door and out into the rain. He extends the umbrella at the exact right moment, so that they are left standing together under a dry canopy as water sluices down around them.
Albert shakes his head, but the smile on his face is fond. “You won’t be missing any classes?”
“I swear I will not be.” The only thing waiting for Barok right now is more reading, and he will happily put that off for a while.
“All right, then.” Albert presses in close, keeping his bag centered under the umbrella, cradled between his body and Barok’s.
The rain continues to patter against the umbrella, a gentle rhythm to guide their walk, and Barok hopes they can have many, many more days like this before fate pulls them in separate directions.
***
The second time they’re together in the rain is Barok’s fault, too.
He read the weather wrong, or the weather decided to be its usual taciturn self. He brought Albert to his home to show off, and now what he’s going to be showing off is the fireplace, because they’re stranded on horseback in the pouring rain, with no easy way to reach the manor.
“Well.” Albert watches lightning flash across the sky. “At least the house is the tallest thing for a while. Though… should we be under this tree?” Albert looks nervously up at the canopy providing at least a modicum of shelter.
“We should be safe enough.” Barok sighs. “Do you want to try riding back post haste, or weathering the storm here? I fear we’ll be terribly drenched either way.”
“If we’re going to be wet either way…” Albert plants his feet in the stirrups, and then slowly, carefully, in a very unnatural manner, dismounts from his horse.
Barok hops down with the ease of someone who’s been riding since he was young. “You’d prefer to be wet not on the horse…? They do produce a lot of body heat.”
“They smell rather dreadfully when wet is what they do, and if we try to ride back, I’m certain I’ll fall off and either kill myself or look like I should be dead.” Albert grins. “But don’t worry, they’re not the only thing that produces body heat.”
Barok frowns, gathering the reins of both horses and looping them into the branches of the tree. “Of course they’re not. All mammals produce body heat. It’s part of what makes them mammals. You were the one who insisted on teaching me all about that Darwin—”
Albert’s hand on Barok’s shoulder draws him around, and before Barok quite knows what’s happening, Albert’s lips are upon his.
Albert’s hair is a mess, his fluffy blond ringlets partially tamed so that they droop asymmetrically. Barok reaches up, tentatively burying his fingers in the mass.
Making a pleased sound deep in his throat, Albert pulls Barok a little bit closer to him, and shifts his lips against Barok’s.
He tastes like the rain. Like water falling, untainted, from a high place that Barok will never see.
He tastes like salt, and smells a little like chemicals still and a lot like horses, and the way the wet fabric of his shirt is hugging his chest should be criminal.
Is criminal, or at least when Barok notices it like this.
Barok pulls back, though with reluctance. He could happily keep kissing Albert in the rain for ages. “ I can’t.”
Albert frowns. “Why? Because you don’t want to, or because…”
“Because I’m going to be a prosecutor. I can’t.” Barok swallows, because he wants to, so badly.
“Oh yes you can.” Albert reaches out again, but his fingers just slide into Barok’s. Both of their hands wet with rain, sliding against each other with ease, and Barok tightens his hold without meaning to.
“I don’t want to be a hypocrite.” Barok whispers the words, letting the rain eat half of them.
“You won’t be.” Albert leans in a little closer, though he still lets the chill wind move between their bodies. “I know you. You’re not one to uphold etiquette laws when actual important matters will need your attention.”
A smile teases at Barok’s mouth, and he feels his cheeks warm. “I think most people would say that I’m more than a little stuck on etiquette.”
“You like it for yourself, and you are infinitely aware of when people who should know better are slighting you.” Albert’s hand comes to rest gently against Barok’s chest, right over his pounding heart. “But you accept me, and I’m hardly the paragon of etiquette.”
“You never mean any harm by forgetting things. You’ve just got… more important things on your mind.” Barok allows one of his hands to reach out, to gently tease a dripping bit of bang back into the mass of Albert’s hair.
“And you’ll have more important things on your mind than hurting people like us just for existing.” Albert leans a little bit closer. “If you don’t want me to, I won’t, but it’s a good opportunity. We’ll be disheveled from the rain. No one will know.”
“ I’ll know.” Which is the most important thing, isn’t it?
“And will it hurt anyone? Will this be the type of crime you’ll prosecute, Barok?” Albert’s lips move a little closer, promising, questioning.
“No.” Barok knows himself. He knows he will be smart enough to walk that line—to know when society is being cruel, and when society is only doing what must be done to protect itself.
He can do this. He can bury his fingers in Albert’s steadily soggier hair, and he can close the distance between them.
He can put his lips to Albert’s, and then kiss his way down to Albert’s neck. Can go to his knees in the spongy wet grass, and tug Albert down with him, and enjoy himself in ways he never would have dared with anyone else.
When the rain is done, they take their horses back to the manor and clean up, no one the wiser.
The next time Barok sees rain clouds hanging over his home, he can’t help but smile.
***
There’s no rain when they bury Klint.
Only bright sun, from the land of clouds and freak storms.
It’s unfair. The sun should stop shining. The world should stop turning.
“I’m so sorry.” Albert runs a hand over his face, smearing the tears there. “Barok, I’m so sorry.”
Barok doesn’t say anything. What is there to say? His world has shattered, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to keep going.
Except he must. He has to make sure the man who did this to Klint doesn’t get to walk away.
He needs to make sure other people don’t have to stand here, dry-eyed and hot in their funeral garb when the world should be tears and cold wind.
Albert doesn’t do anything but cry silently during the funeral. Not consistently, but often enough that it shakes Barok out of his fugue state and back into noticing what’s happening.
Noticing the priest say his words.
Noticing the coffin being lowered.
Noticing the dirt falling onto the lid, thud , thud , thud , a distant thunder.
Noticing that everyone else has left, leaving Barok alone.
Alone except for Albert.
Albert takes his arms and turns him, and for a moment Barok thinks he’s going to do something truly stupid, like try to kiss Barok right here.
He doesn’t, though. He just stares into Barok’s dry eyes, his own red-rimmed, still leaking tears.
Then Albert takes a finger and scrapes it across Albert’s cheek, gathering some of the tears. He takes the wetness, and he puts it to Barok’s cheek.
Barok startles back as though slapped.
“Funny rain we’re having, huh?” Albert smiles, but it’s a strained, tear-filled expression.
Barok opens his mouth to answer, and is startled by a sob.
The first is followed by another, and then another, and before he quite knows what’s happening he’s sobbing uncontrollably in Albert’s arms.
“Very funny rain,” Albert says, staring up into the bright cloudless sky.
Barok laughs through the tears, and holds his friend tight, and wishes they could stay like this for longer than he knows they’ll be able to.
***
It rains the day Albert sets out for Germany.
Not a thick rain, and not penetrating like the one that let them first kiss. This is a typical London squall, wind that moves the dirt around and a drizzle that dampens but doesn’t clean anything.
They can’t kiss on the docks, but they can shake hands. Barok reaches out first, gripping Albert’s hand fiercely, as though he could keep him here.
And he could. All it would take is a word, and he’s certain Albert wouldn’t leave. He’d offered to stay, after all, given all that happened with Klint.
But Barok isn’t going to sabotage a friend’s life just because his own is falling apart. That wouldn’t be either fair or right, and he tries to be both, even if he knows he sometimes fails.
“Take care of yourself, all right?” Albert turns the handshake into a hug, patting Barok on the back.
“You, too.” Barok manages to find a smile somewhere. “Come back with something marvelous.”
“You k now it!” Albert’s smile is broader—more real. He has always loved what he does.
Barok wants to love what he does, too. Thinks he will, again, just like he loved the idea of it during school. Protecting people. Avenging people.
But first he will have to feel anything but cold rain inside his chest, and it seems he might have to wait a long while for that.
Albert’s hands fall away, and Barok resists the urge to reach for him. To beg him to stay.
He will not ruin anyone else’s life just because his has been destroyed.
So he stands as a silent statue of old-school aristocracy, watching his friend’s ship disappear into the fog and the rain.
He stands until he’s soaked despite the timidity of the precipitation, and then he tilts his head forward, allowing the water from his hair to run down into his face.
It is not the same as when he cried at Klint’s funeral, but something about it feels the same, and when he turns away from the dock he’s able to do so with a lighter step than he feared.
***
Albert is in London again.
Barok knows it, but he hasn’t gone to find the man.
Doesn’t know what he’ll say when he does.
I’m sorry I valued a ghost more than people’s lives.
I’m sorry I didn’t see what my brother became.
I’m sorry I let people use me.
All of these are true, and none of them quite strike at the heart of the truth.
He is sorry, yes, but he is also angry.
Furious.
And frustrated, because there is nothing more that he can do with his anger. It will not bring Klint back. It will not bring back any of the others who have died.
It will not recreate the family that might have been.
Barok doesn’t have the heart to face that truth still. It had been easy enough to deduce, once everything else was accounted for.
Had been practically shoved into his face by several pointed comments from Herlock Sholmes, damn the man.
And yet.
What is he supposed to do?
It would be a cruelty to rip Iris away from all that she’s ever known. No, far better for the von Zieks name to die with him.
And die with him it will. His inclinations have never run towards the fairer sex, and now…
Now all he wants is the impossible.
He wants his brother to rise from the grave in front of him. He wants Asougi Genshin to rise once more from his grave, and make it home to the land he must have missed so dearly.
He wants Albert to find him, and wrap arms around him, and tell him everything will be all right even as the rain starts falling again.
It’s better that the rain falls. It’s better that there is an outward expression of the grief that still wants to eat him alive.
Except then… it stops.
Instead there’s the soft, insistent patter of rain against an umbrella.
Barok turns, and is surprised to see Albert standing there, umbrella in hand. He stares not at Klint’s grave, but at the lighter patch of sky where the moon hangs hidden.
“Why…” Barok swallows and manages to start again. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Not too many places you would be, are there, old friend?” Albert lowers his gaze and smiles at Barok. “Though if you wanted to come somewhere else…”
Barok nods, and reaches out to place a hand on Albert’s arm.
Albert leads him through the graveyard and back to the road, where Barok forces himself to release the touch. Huddling together under the umbrella is acceptable, though.
“Where… are you staying?” Barok knows he needs to speak more fluently, but he can’t seem to manage it.
Albert’s veneer of calm cracks, and he laughs nervously. “That’s a very good question. Unless you’d like to help me afford a room, I, uh, may need some help.”
Barok smiles, glad to be facing a problem that he can actually fix. “I can help you with a room for the night, and then we’ll see where you’d like to be.”
“Oh thank you.” Albert gives another soft laugh, and smiles at Barok. “It’s good to be here with you.”
“ It’s good to be here with you too.” Barok finds that he means it, too—that rather than just aching emptiness or fury in his chest, there’s something… not softer, but less jagged. Something he can hold onto without hurting.
“I wasn’t sure I’d want to come back, after everything.” Albert’s shoulders hunch slightly. “I didn’t know if I wanted to go back to Germany, and I didn’t know if I would ever want to be here. I wanted to disappear… except I didn’t. I wanted to be right , but since I couldn’t be, I had to figure out how to keep going. How to get to somewhere where I could be right.”
Barok watches Albert out of the corner of his eye, his friend surrounded by a rainbow halo as a drop of water oozes its way down Barok’s bangs and into his field of vision. “Are you giving me advice?”
“Depends.” Albert shrugs. “Are you in a place where you can take it?”
“Ten years.” Barok pauses, and then takes the safer route. “You worked for ten years, and it came to nothing.”
“But in another ten, well, who knows what I’ll have found?” Albert bumps his shoulder against Barok’s.
And that’s the hope that they all carry with them, isn’t it?
They drag the past around, rain storms that drench them and parched days that dry out all emotion.
But who knows what they’ll walk into tomorrow?
Who knows who they’ll be or what they’ll have?
“Can I stay with you?” Barok asks the question quietly, not wanting to be overheard. “Tonight?”
Albert practically starts vibrating as he leans a little bit harder against Barok. “Nothing would make me happier.”
Barok draws in a deep breath of petrichor and London, and exhales it slowly.
The rain hasn’t quite stopped, but maybe it will tomorrow. And even if it doesn’t, or even if it starts again… there are worse things tha n walking under an umbrella with someone he trusts.