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It happens every morning without fail and has happened ever since he can remember. Roderich will groggily stumble to the bathroom after rising from bed, whether at 7am to be early for a meeting or as late as 2pm on his days off. Sometimes when he is awake enough, he'll be self-conscious enough to shut the door before his morning routine. The servants no longer frequent the living quarters of Roderich's house as much as they did in decades past, so now Roderich only has the attentions of an awkward and desperately non-confrontational Ludwig to worry about.
Nowadays the bathroom door stays open, a perfect opportunity for Ludwig to indulge his curiosity by hiding behind an arch (because such furnishings are a necessity in a house mansion inhabited by Roderich Edelstein). It's the perfect spot; light from the bathroom window doesn't reach far enough to betray his presence and the hallway behind him is pitch-black.
Down the hallway lies the guest bedroom, more like Gilbert’s bedroom considering it's the Prussian’s first choice of accommodation when he just happens to be passing through Austria or so he claims. Right now Gilbert isn't here and with no reason for anyone to be down this hallway, the blinds stay shut.
Today is Roderich's day off from work, meaning Ludwig has already been up hours before him. Ludwig takes his position behind the arch as usual and straightens out his ankles in case they pop. He has a hunch that something…terrible might happen if he were discovered. To himself or Roderich, he can't tell.
Just a few steps away from the bathroom are the double doors to Roderich's bedroom. Roderich finally emerges, rubbing his eyes with one hand and holding his glasses in the other. He hasn't bothered pulling a dressing robe over his long nightshirt, leaving his legs exposed halfway down his thighs. Ludwig's breath catches at the sight. Gilbert would surely roll his eyes at him if he were here.
Roderich stands in front of the mirror and stays there while turning his head slightly. He moves a step back and forth every so often as if looking for something. Clearly not having found it, he starts fussing with his hair by carding long, pale fingers through it. He tries smoothing the cowlick down (it never works), scraping the bangs off his face and flipping the parting from right to left. After about 15 minutes of this-and Ludwig checks with his watch-Roderich takes a final step back and sighs deeply with defeat. He undoes the top two buttons of his nightshirt, slips it over his head and tosses it to the floor.
One time while walking past the bathroom with Roderich inside taking his bath, Ludwig impulsively picked the nightshirt off the ground and put it in the laundry hamper by the door. Roderich only rolled his eyes with a slight upwards twitch of his lips. It seemed like this untidy habit of his was here to stay.
The tap is running and Roderich paces around the spacious bathroom while clutching and pinching at his thighs. It happens often enough for Ludwig to worry that perhaps Gilbert's teasing has finally gotten to Roderich. A twinge of guilt pierces him for letting his brother’s antics escalate this far, and has a good mind to tell his brother off the next time it happens because Roderich looks so lost and forlorn and maybe it wasn’t even Gilbert’s fault but he just needs to do something....
The bath is three-quarters full when Roderich stops both the tap and his feverish movements. He briefly rinses himself off in the shower, climbs into the tub and lets himself sink down to his neck in fragrant, foamy water. Some steamy air wafts out into the hallway and Ludwig catches a whiff of vanilla, apples and something else, maybe cinnamon. Explains that sweetness whenever Roderich hugs him after months apart. Or perhaps that was Roderich’s natural scent all along but amplified by the warm air, who knew?
Ludwig remains in his spot even as Roderich begins the rather mundane process of scrubbing himself all over with an embroidered lilac washcloth, beginning with his neck and ending at his feet. It’s far from the first time Ludwig’s seen the man naked; they’ve visited swimming pools, beaches and saunas where covering up was optional, sometimes even frowned upon. But candidly catching Roderich like this is something else altogether. He will certainly lose sleep tonight, trying to untangle this convoluted bramble bush of thoughts.
Roderich curses mildly under his breath upon realising his movements made some of the water splash over the brim of the tub. The sight of puddles irks Ludwig and it takes some serious self-control to not barge in and mop it dry there and then. Another part of him melts from Roderich’s endearing hopelessness.
Soft, hazy spring sunshine bounces off marble tiles and silvery plumbing. A slender leg dripping with now-lukewarm water swings over the edge and onto the tiles, and Roderich walks over to the mirror to start his usual fussing all over again. The air is warm enough for him to not immediately envelope himself in a fleecy bathrobe like he would in winter. Instead he pays a disturbing amount of attention to his face by tugging the skin this way and that (it’s unmarred and flawless to Ludwig) and doing that odd head-turning thing again as if three angled mirrors spread across the vast length of the bathroom wall isn’t enough of himself to scrutinise.
Ludwig wonders if it’ll do the Austrian any good if he were to somehow destroy those damn mirrors. An errant football flying in from the window? A mop that most unfortunately slipped while cleaning the bathroom? Regardless, the mirrors will be back as long as Roderich can afford them (he definitely can despite his perpetual insistence of Austria being in hard times). Ludwig’s heart sinks.
By now most of the water has evaporated off Roderich’s body though he towels himself down out of habit anyway. From a drawer in the vanity he retrieves a comb carved delicately out of bone, likely worth something obscene, and begins working through damp locks with more determination than Ludwig thinks is proportionate to the simple activity. From the same drawer he collects a handful of small bottles, their contents and purpose Ludwig will never understand. Roderich adds a dash of each bottle’s contents to his hair one by one and always in a specific order, sometimes straight to his scalp and other times rubbing it between his palms first.
Ludwig has purposely felt Roderich’s hair only once in his life. Childish curiosity got the better of him, and perhaps that was why instead of chiding Ludwig for invading his personal space, his mouth twitched into that barely perceptible smile more eyes than lips.
Soft and fine. That was what Roderich’s hair felt like back then and what Ludwig imagines it to be now. Ludwig has a fleeting doubt over whether this hour’s long routine means a thing to anyone other than Roderich himself. His hair (and the rest of him too) was wonderful even without the fuss. And surely by now Roderich noticed how little concern anyone else paid to his appearance? He was extremely fine-tuned to social nuances after all.
Inspecting himself in the mirror once more, he appeared to be happy if not at least content with the outcome of his hair. He swept the bottles to one side, opened the vanity drawer and dumped them all in a haphazard pile without looking twice. Ludwig winced at the sight but stayed put, still entranced.
From the cabinet below the hair products, Roderich selects a jar of cream. Ludwig cannot see it from this angle but from previously snooping around in the Austrian’s vanity drawers he knew there were over two dozen strange jars, all of them different. The sight was enough to give him a headache accompanied with a begrudging respect for the extent of Roderich’s dedication to himself.
Roderich begins the lengthy process of smoothing the cream over every inch of exposed skin save his face. No, he had a different, apparently more specialised cream for that purpose. Ludwig drinks in the sight of languid movements as if smoothing out not just skin, but inner griefs too. Finished with his upper body, his hands pass beyond the indent of his navel and dip down to his groin. The skin there is smooth and hairless just like the rest of him, unlike Gilbert’s body and recently Ludwig’s own. He’d walked in on Roderich waxing himself a few times at first shocked at how nonchalant Roderich was to the strips tearing out already sparse brunet strands.
Roderich dips his finger into the tub again and strokes his length which twitches slightly. As usual he ignores it, but when applying the cream to his inner thighs his hand brushes over it again. A soft whimper escapes his mouth accompanied by a wet glistening of the flushed tip, though to Ludwig’s disappointment Roderich does little else other than pat himself clean with the washcloth.
Ludwig knows full well that this was something blush-worthy to Roderich had there been any witnesses. Many summers ago, he, Gilbert and Roderich ventured to the nearby lake for a swim, all three of them stark naked. Ludwig could’ve sworn it was when Gilbert teasingly flaunted his toned body to an exasperated Roderich. A split second later and the sight of his own half-hard member sent a rush of blood to the Austrian’s cheeks and he discreetly slipped under the water, eyes darting about warily even though only the three of them were there. Ludwig, then barely into his teens, sensed it was one of those things that avoided mention and continued splashing by the lakeside, feigning ignorance.
At least with Roderich’s current lack of embarrassment, Ludwig was sure the Austrian assumed he was still alone.
Content with the condition of his body, Roderich’s attention turned to his face. Long ago, Ludwig filed away powders, pigments and other curious, fascinating substances under the exclusive use of women and theatrical performers. But Roderich, a man, most definitely a man, powdered his face with the meticulous care of a painter applying final touches on a masterpiece.
Ludwig feels confused, scandalised, intrigued.
One day, thinks Ludwig, one day when Gilbert will definitely be far, far away from Vienna, he’ll ask Roderich if just maybe he could try some of that powder. He mulls over the idea for a little longer. No, powder was too ridiculous, too sudden, too much for the first thing he’d ask of Roderich. But hair products? Typical men (Roderich was too...himself... to be simply ‘typical’) used those, didn’t they? It’s a safe place to start, concludes Ludwig.
An image of Gilbert cackling gleefully flashes through his mind.
“Prissiness is contagious, didn’t you know? My little brother turning into another Priss, what a shame…” gloats the imaginary Gilbert, laughing that unmistakable cacophonous laugh. Ludwig is certain he would drop dead if this played out for real.
His brother cannot know.
Roderich finishes cleaning his teeth just as Ludwig comes back to himself. He reaches for a tiny pot of balm, again one of a myriad of others. Roderich pats it onto his lips with a dainty ring finger, leaving behind a flush of pink. Ludwig finds himself playing a guessing game of trying to deduce what flavour Roderich has selected today. During yesterday’s piano lesson, Roderich had reached across Ludwig’s lap to demonstrate a scale, and Ludwig edged forward just enough to get a whiff of strawberry.
Ludwig vows for the nth time to get a new hobby.
Still naked, Roderich collects his towel from the silver hook beside the bath and glasses from beside the sink but neglects the nightshirt and washcloth discarded on the floor. Before he leaves, Ludwig knows Roderich will take a last-minute glance at himself in the absurdly huge mirrors. He takes the opportunity to bolt down the marble steps, savouring the silence of his footsteps unlike the rickety wooden staircase of his brother’s house.
No-one has used the kitchen since he did at breakfast. Ludwig sighs in relief that everything is exactly as he left it, tidy and organised. Alles in ordnung. He swiftly arranges fruits, cheese and sausage on a large plate and fires up the kettle for Roderich’s coffee. While waiting for the water, he grabs a history textbook stashed at the back of the broom cupboard (Roderich’s never opened that door, not once), flips to an arbitrary page and buries his nose in musty yellowing pages.
Not long after, Roderich descends the stairs and enters the kitchen. He is in no hurry today from the look of the rumpled silk dressing gown lazily draped over thin shoulders and how he left it hanging open revealing lilac boxer shorts covered in patches of mismatched fabric. Silver-rimmed glasses teeter on the edge of his nose, threatening to fall off at any moment. That tired look is back in his eyes though they liven up ever so slightly at the sight of food along with Ludwig at the table. Ludwig doesn’t know where to look when Roderich leans against his chair and lightly runs a hand through Ludwig’s loose blond locks.
“Have you had your lunch yet, Liebling?” Roderich asks softly, cocking his head. Ludwig’s gaze does not break away from the page he is on.
“Yes Roderich,” he replied curtly, “Thank you.” He turns the page, eyes scanning but not seeing.
Roderich sighs through his nose, closing the book gently but firmly and pushes it to the side with a gesture so smooth that Ludwig barely registers the book is gone, a plate in its place. Without thinking, he catches Roderich’s soft, sleepy violet eyes.
“Have some more. After all, you are a growing boy,” he adds, a wry smile playing upon his lips. Ludwig’s blood surges in his veins and he silently curses himself.
They eat in amicable silence, occasionally broken by Roderich gesturing at Ludwig to take more of something Ludwig particularly enjoys, or just to eat more in general.
Maybe this is what having parents is like. The thought doesn’t sit well with...whatever else Roderich is to him.
As usual Ludwig volunteers himself to wash up while Roderich sips the last of his creamy, sugary coffee. Just as Ludwig rinses soapy residue off his hands, a cloud of vanilla and apple envelopes him followed by silk-clad arms, pale fingers clutching at Ludwig’s shirt.
“Piano lesson at six, alright?” Roderich’s hands shift upwards to cup Ludwig’s jaw. Ludwig wonders what the Austrian thinks of patchy stubble emerging for the first time on a jaw still retaining some childhood roundness. Or if he thinks anything of it at all. It’s not easy for Roderich to kiss Ludwig’s forehead now that the boy has a good few inches on him, so instead Ludwig feels a brief peck of plump, balmed lips on his jawline.
Roderich heads up the staircase again, bare legs and feet padding quietly across marble, silk dressing robe billowing behind him. When Ludwig touches his finger to his jaw and then near his nose, he smells cherries and heartbeats.