Chapter Text
Stupid Professor Philips. Stupid Gilbert Blythe. What was the point of technology if Anne had to go Gilbert Blythe’s house to give him his stupid notes? Curse Gilbert for having a house so close to the Cuthberts. Anne had to reassure Ruby fifty times that she’d rather be doing anything else before heading over.
The house seemed nice, completely ill fitting a jerk like Gilbert Blythe. The front porch had windchimes, but instead of sounding like regular bells, these sounded reminiscent of some Eastern Asian instrument Anne didn’t know the name of. The bars were silver, but the ring was red painted wood, with symbols embossed in dark metal. They were actually kind of… pretty.
Anne snapped out of it. She was not going to consider anything in Gilbert’s house pretty.
She rang the doorbell, and waited a couple of seconds. There wasn’t even movement in the house. She sighed. Figures. She came all this way and Gilbert couldn’t even be bothered to come up to the front door to get it. She rang the doorbell again, and knocked for good measure.
And then did the whole thing again, twice more.
She glared at the door. “Gilbert Blythe! I don’t care if you’re hung over, if you don’t get the front door I will—” The door swung open to a man who immediately moved to use the doorway as a cane to prop him up right. He had bright blue eyes ringed with purple bruises and his face was wide set despite his sallow cheeks. His hair was thin and what parts of it were still left were barely visible given their blonde color. It was his nose that gave him away, however. It was the same annoyingly perfect shape as Gilbert’s.
“I felt like I didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence. Sorry for the wait,” he said. His voice was warm, hoarse. Anne didn’t know what made a more immediate first impression, his sickness or his joviality.
“Um, I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t be. Gilbert went out to the store, for an emergency. I’m afraid I haven’t been able to… Well, it doesn’t matter. Come on in.”
Anne didn’t hesitate to duck under his arm, hefting upright as they made their way inside. Mr. Blythe huffed out a laugh in surprise, leaning on her despite himself. He barely weighed anything at all.
“You don’t have to do that, dear, I’m perfectly—”
“Would you prefer the bedroom or the living room?” Anne asked.
Mr. Blythe sighed. “The living room. I want to be in a room with sunshine.”
“Good choice,” Anne said, and Mr. Blythe chuckled again. She set him down on the couch, and he beamed up at her. Anne moved to the kitchen, pulling open cupboards. “Would you happen to know where the glasses are? Wait, never mind.” She opened the door to a couple of mismatched mugs, and got one and filled it up with water, bringing it over.
Mr. Blythe accepted it with another one of his toothy smiles. “Gilbert should be back soon.”
Anne nodded, looking down. She hated herself, but she was dying with curiosity. Gilbert seemed to have the perfect answer to everything, everything she’d ever wanted. She’d never expected his home life to be like this. She was abruptly hungry for every scrap of information about him.
No. Think about Ruby. And how he’d call her Carrots.
Yet, her eyes wandered to the photos decorating the walls.
Mr. Blythe caught her looking, and his smile when she caught his gaze again was far too knowing. She felt her ears turn red despite herself, and she cleared her throat, taking a seat.
“I’ve heard good things about you, you know.”
“From who?” Anne blurted out, then went red again.
Mr. Blythe smiled, and here was another Gilbert expression, despite most of the features being different. It was the smile he’d worn on that first day, offering her an apple. “He says you’re quite the orator.”
Anne clenched her jaw. Of course Mr. Blythe thought Gilbert was being nice. He didn’t know those were backhanded compliments.
“I was wondering… there’s a book, on my nightstand, the room right by the front door. Could you come here and read it to me?”
Anne jumped to her feet with a relieved sigh. This, she could do. She retrieved the book. It was a book of poems, and when she opened it, it fell right to a page in the middle. Anne knew that when a book did that, it was a sign of a page well loved. Anne cleared her throat, and began to read, making it as dramatical as possible. “A foot and light hearted, I take to the open road…”
She’d just gotten to the end of the poem when a door slammed open. “Dad? Dad!”
Mr. Blythe sighed, clearly preparing to call out, but before he could Anne called, “We’re in here!”
There was an abrupt silence, and then the sound of footsteps coming closer. Anne tucked her hair back from where it flew out during her recitation, and straightened out her clothes, just in time for Gilbert to peer around the corner. He was in a wool sweater, hair messier than usual, and when he caught sight of her, he paused for a moment, staring.
“What… what’re you doing here?”
Anne wrinkled her nose, making sure to convey as much annoyance as possible, taking the notes and thrusting them at him. “I brought you notes. Apparently, since I’m closest, it’s my job to be your personal mailman.”
Gilbert raised an eyebrow, taking the notes gingerly. “Don’t you mean mailwoman?”
“Gender is a construct,” Anne snapped. Instead of having a normal reaction, Gilbert laughed, barely more than a puff of air. He looked down, traces of laughter still on his face, and shook his head.
“Ah, Carrots. Never change,” he said, and Anne glared at him.
“I’ll pour another drink over your head, don’t think I won’t.” She crossed her arms, looking him up and down. “Maybe I should do it anyway. You look like you need a shower.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, your highness, if I’d known you were visiting I would’ve dressed in my finest suit,” Gilbert said, faux-curtsying and peering up at her under his lashes, his smile sharp with mockery. Anne scoffed, feeling a familiar, nervous energy overtake her. Stupid Gilbert Blythe and his stupid eyes.
“See to it that you do,” she said, after an unnaturally long pause. Her awkwardness cut the teasing atmosphere in the room immediately. Anne couldn’t tell if that was better or worse. She stared down at her shoes. The room went silent.
“You were right, son, Anne is quite the orator,” Mr. Blythe said finally. Unlike Gilbert, she could tell that Mr. Blythe actually meant it, and her face warmed with the praise.
“Not just that. Anne is good at everything.” Anne looked up at Gilbert. His expression was open, warm. And then his earnest expression fell into a smirk. “Except math.”
That little…
“Oh, just you wait, Gilbert Blythe, by the time you come back I’m going to be at the top of the class, and that will shut you up.”
Gilbert waved the papers in his hand. “Not with these notes, you aren’t. If you’re going to beat me, it’ll have to be fair and square.”
Anne clenched her jaw. “It will be.” She turned to Mr. Blythe. “It was an absolute pleasure meeting you, Mr. Blythe. Your choice in poetry is exquisite.”
“Thank you, Anne with an E.” He held out a hand for her to shake. She shook it, but then his grip tightened, and his gaze went sharp. “Keep my son on his toes, eh? Don’t let him get too complacent.”
Anne smiled a shark-like grin. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”
He patted her hand, finally letting it go and closing his eyes. “Just John, dear,” he sighed out, seeming already half-way to sleep. “Tell Marilla… Tell Marilla I said hello.”
Anne’s eyebrows furrowed. “Of course, Mr—I mean, John.”
He didn’t acknowledge her further than a small smile, and when she turned, Gilbert was looking at his father, gaze soft. His mind seemed a million miles away.
“Gil?” She asked.
“Hm?” He looked up at her, but his mind still seemed far away. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
Anne hitched her backpack higher over her shoulder, stepping onto the porch, when Gilbert called out her name. She turned around, an eyebrow raised. “Thanks,” he said softly. And then he seemed to force his face back into a lighter expression. “For the notes. And for calling me Gil.”
Anne’s mouth dropped open. “I did not call you—”
“Bye, Carrots!” He said, sing-song, and closed the door on her face.
“Gilbert Blythe!” She shrieked, but all she could hear was his laughter through the door, and she clenched her fist, stomping her way back home.
Stupid Gilbert Blythe.