Did I ever post this? [fic]
Gilbert and Elizaveta
Eliza.
Humming in his memory as she almost danced through the kitchen, carelessly tossing ingredients into the wooden mixing bowl she carried, flour settling across her arms and cheeks, unnoticed, as she twirled a whisk with swift, nimble fingers. Beautiful, as she stood there- and yet warmer in his arms, where their breath mixed in the shade of a doorway, their lips, teeth and tongues fighting and colliding, her hair tangled in his fingers.
His.
He had to resist the urge to whisper to her as she stood just inches from his side in the church pew, faded-green eyes fixed on the altar at the front of the room, lips parted so casually as she concentrated on the quiet baby getting his head splashed with the ‘blessed’ water. Her embroidered white gown swayed as she shifted on her feet, as restricting and ridiculously formal as the extravagant grey suit he'd been relegated; containing her, muffling her, too strict over the soft curve of her shoulders. The murmur of the Baptism’s rites filled the echoing hall of the half-filled church, interrupted only by the occasional cough, and it was so… stifling, in his eyes. Boring, enormously so, and it was sincerely tempting to just say a word; a single, loud, complaint, to screw the priest’s carefully laid plans- It would do him good, the stuffy twat.
And then he could talk to Eliza, of course. She was so silent when she focussed, her forehead crinkling slightly as she narrowed her eyes before her with almost strict intent. He frowned slightly as he gazed at her tensed stance from the corner of his eye, shifting in his too-smart black shoes. Too silent- her shoulders rigid, hands lightly fisted.
…If he reached out his hand, just so, he reckoned, he could just brush the backs of his fingers against the softness of her sleeve, entwining them within it until he could drag her hand closer and enfold it within his. Or he could nudge her arm with his fingertips until she glanced over, so he could smirk at her and not pay attention to the ceremony, and she could scowl back, gesturing with furrowed eyebrows at the front of the church while trying not to smile.
The minutes had dragged by slowly since they’d entered the church, and the afternoon light of the sun pierced through the fragments of the intricate, stained-glass windows, tossing multicoloured beams of light across the congregation, glittering off of the silver balconies. He could barely see the child held in the Pope’s arms, enveloped as he was by the Father's robes. His brother born to be great, to lead an empire of the church, to be an empire of the church; so small in the elder man’s arms, blinking with those large blue eyes at the regal arches of the ceiling.
…He would be fine. The kid- he’d be fine. God knows he’s gonna show them hell, the twerp.
He blinked and refocused as Elizaveta finally glanced over at him, dusted-brown hair flowing around her chin so beautifully fluidly, small lips curving into a small smile. He found himself cocking an eyebrow back at her with a grin, taking the opportunity to slip his hand into hers, something fluttering in his chest as she squeezed his hand in return. She’d almost laughed, he knew, he could tell by the smile creasing her mouth - almost, but not quite, her silence remaining steadfastly in light of where they were; he could’ve cursed. But her hand remained in his, and he restrained himself, this time, standing and watching as this boy, his brother, was carried ceremoniously before the holy sceptre and blessed in the afternoon light.
He traced circles with his thumb over her finger tips as the ceremony came to an end, that… something twisting once more as she pressed her palm tighter into his grip, and suddenly he didn’t mind the silence, his thoughts calming as the final drops of water were scattered over the child’s head.
And they stood together, quietly, as the dying light poured down around them and burned like bloodied embers through the warped panes of coloured glass.