Yes, it is true: I am not dead.
For the most part.
This is pretty short, it's just setting Gilbert up with a fab apartment.
Excuse for small hiatus: Voltron Hell. Exams. Daily role of the comic relief.
Also, I know NOTHING about communism. I don't know how it works in the slightest. If anyone wants to fill me in, feel free to, because I don't want to misrepresent anything.
But...Yeah. Here we go.
Okay, he had to say, being able to take a shower was a relief, even if it was freezing cold because Feliks had taken up all the warm water.
They lived in a flat near the edge of East Berlin, which was awesome. If he poked his head out one of the windows, he could see right over to the West.
The actual inside of the flat, however, was...well...interesting. It was as if a whole horde of unicorns had came in, thrown a sick party, gotten too drunk and then thrown up glitter everywhere. Which was, to say, that it was a complete mess. There were costumes thrown on the bright pink couch, brightly colored feathers on a deep red love seat, jewels glued to lampshades. The walls were spatters of dark purple and green paint, as if they couldn't decide on a color and just threw the paint cans on the wall. The hardwood floors were covered by fluffy, sky blue rugs.
Gilbert had never imagined that he would be staying in such a place.
He turned the water off and wiped a towel off of the neatly folded stack on the floor, drying off and changing (thankfully) in a nice, normal, not sparkly shirt and pants. The fact that they were Toris' he decided he'd have to look over.
When he came back into the living room, Feliks was flipping through a beat-up book on the pink sofa. His hair was still sopping wet, and was strewn in stringy pieces over the couch's arm.
"Look who's not in a leotard," Gilbert said with a smirk.
Feliks lifted his head, eyes narrowed. "Like, look, kolega, maybe you should just close your lips- yes, just like you are now - no, don't open them! Shh. Yes! That's better. So much better. My ears cry their thanks."
"Why don't you -"
He'd barely started his sentence before Felix hurled a book at his face.
"Shhh," the Pole hissed, a finger pressed to his lips. "Educate yourself, don't embarrass yourself."
Gilbert's fists curled at his sides, and he made no move to pick the book up from off the floor. "Where's your girlfriend?"
Felix stiffened. Gilbert had no idea what part of his sentence was so effective, nor why. But, hey, whatever.
"You know, Leotard," he said.
"His name is Toris, dumbass," Feliks snapped.
"Toris, Leotard, what's the difference?"
"Do you lack common sense, or are you just stupid?"
"Selective sense," Gilbert responded immediately, smirking.
Feliks gave him a withering look, and then turned back to his book, muttering to its pages, "Bananas."
"Yeah, I know. What's he want with bananas?"
The Pole gave him another black look. "They don't come in very often, you know."
"They don't?" He wasn't a huge fan of bananas - not a huge fan of any fruit - but the concept of bananas meaning something big was strange.
"Once, twice a year," Feliks replied. He closed his eyes, as if reliving some memory. "Sometimes we go out and work in the fields, too."
"What are you talking about?"
"Strawberries. They're totally better than bananas."
Gilbert was completely lost. "You don't have strawberries?"
"We have strawberries, idiot. Were you even, like, listening? You go out and work in the field, you get to buy a certain amount."
"But that doesn't make sense!"
"What? Picking strawberries?"
"No. Whatever you pick, that's what you bring back -"
Feliks nose scrunched up. "You lived in the American sector, didn't you?"
Gilbert didn't respond to that. "Say, you guys have a telephone anywhere?"
"Telephone? Hell no. Wouldn't work, anyway. Service is unreliable - and if it wasn't, the Stasi would be eavesdropping."
"They can't do that."
"'Course they can, idiot. The Stasi are everywhere - you don't even know where."
"You can't be serious, right?"
"Why not? They're a secret police. A secret police can do anything they want, because we won't know a thing."
"What about radios, then? You've got one?"
Feliks rolled his eyes. "We don't have a telephone, and before you ask, no, we don't have television - but yes, of course we've got a radio. Right -" he grunted, turning over and stretching out an arm to point with a finger - "there. Next to the chair, on the side table."
Gilbert looked in the direction he was pointing and grimaced.
"You painted it pink."
"I didn't paint it. I made Toris do that. I just picked out the color. Don't touch it."
"Because your oily hands are totally going to ruin it," Feliks huffed, getting up. "There's nothing interesting on it, anyway. What do you want it for?"
"Do you get Western broadcasts?"
"We listen to Radio Free Europe from time to time. Goddamn Americans. It's like they want to take over the whole world. No!" He slapped Gilbert's hand away from the knobs. "I told you not to touch it! Debil! You'll get us all killed!"
Story time with Sveg: That moment when you "accidentally" right a fan fiction on Russia at Chernobyl and turn it in as a chemistry portfolio piece and your teacher really likes it and starts asking where you got the idea from and you don't know what to do so you just sit there and smile and slowly feel yourself crumble a little inside.
Story time with Sveg 2: That moment when you start making Voltron fan art (hah, like I'm artistic.) I traced Lance and Shiro from Voltron using Adobe Illustrator and gave a Shiro to my teacher and he hung it up on his wall. But not the same teacher that hung up a piece of 2p! Rome fan art. A different one. Who watched Attack on Titan because I talked about it and yes inside I am screaming I am always screaming like a bird that is afraid of heights.
HAPPY MAY EVERYBODY.
KEEP ON CHUGGING.
Kisses for y'all -