A/N: This was just an idea I had, and I decided to put it on paper—or, well, screen...? Anyway, please review/follow/fave and let me know what you think!

December 1st

The house was absolutely quiet, the only noise coming from a large, wooden grandfather clock perched in the corner of the hallway. Matthew shivered, feeling a sense of foreboding.

Gilbert's house.

He was here again.

Actually, they all were—Matthew had stopped by Gilbert's house that bitter, cold afternoon since Herr and Frau Beilschmidt had insisted earlier that Matthew and some of Gilbert's other friends collect the things their son had left for them. The two parents were so grief-stricken that even though Matthew had hockey practice to attend and homework to do, he didn't protest.

"Well, let's get this shit over with."

"Mathias, hush. That's no way to speak," Elizaveta Héderváry scolded the Dane. "We need to be polite, and gather these things. And... pay respects."

"We already paid respects at the funeral, Elizaveta. I really don't want to see this stuff. I don't want to see his room again, okay?" Mathias' voice was borderline hysterical, a tone that didn't suit the sturdy Scandinavian.

Matthew looked back at the rest of the group. Everyone looked uncomfortable; the unusual gathering consisted of Mathias Køhler, Elizaveta Héderváry, Ivan Braginsky, Francis Bonnefoy, Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo, Alfred Jones, Arthur Kirkland, and Matthew, of course. But with eight people, how much stuff could there even be for everyone?

"Stop standing around," Arthur complained. "We don't have all day." He shoved Matthew out of the way and began walking up the carpeted stairs, heading for Gilbert's room.

Arthur was still furious. How could Gilbert-freaking-Beilschmidt, of all the people in the world, have killed himself? Gilbert seemed so happy, so carefree, so utterly above the influence of everyone. The Brit felt as if he were moving through life like swimming through a nightmare—slowly and in constant suspense. He stopped at Gilbert's door.

"Here," Antonio said quietly, opening the door to Gilbert's room. It was normal—perfectly clean, perfectly quiet, perfectly empty. A box of things sat on the bed, still taped closed, labeled For my friends in Gilbert's messy scrawl.

"So, who wants to open it?" Matthew ventured, running a hand through his hair nervously.

Mathias sighed. "Fine, fine, I will." He grabbed the cardboard box and sliced through the duct tape with a pocket knife that had been sitting on Gilbert's desk. "Huh?"

"What is it?" Ivan asked, moving to see, and the rest of the group crowded around the box.

"Oh, shit, man," Alfred whispered.

And then it was a free-for-all. Everyone was snatching for the one object that was in the box—a letter—shouting, "Hand it to me," or "What does it say?", until finally Ivan, who was the tallest person there, held it above everyone, growling, "Stop. Stop!"

After a moment, there was silence again. Ivan cleared his throat. "Excuse me! I will just read this aloud to everyone," he said, fixing his icy violet eyes on the other seven people, daring them to object. When no one did, he drew in a deep breath and began.

"'Before I killed myself, I told my parents to invite eight people over to the house. I trust they brought the right people over, because they were not idiots. Now, don't worry—you all are the first people to see this letter. Do you understand? You are the first people to see this letter.'"

"That's touching," Elizaveta said. "He trusts us before anyone else!"

"'But you are not the first people to hear these secrets. Let me tell you, plain and clear—if you are one of the eight people here, it's because of you that I killed myself. Do you hear that? It's your fault. It's because of—'" Ivan broke off for a second.

"'Because of you.'"

Stunned silence.

"Wh-what?" Francis half-laughed, half-whispered. "That can't be right—we were all friends with Gil!"

Antonio looked like he was about to vomit up tomatoes and churros, and Ivan, face pale, continued shakily.

"'You are all probably shocked! Wondering what you did to me, right? I'll explain. Think back. Way back in your memory to that one secret you have that would absolutely ruin you if anyone found out. The very terrible one that would destroy your awesome image—the one you shared with me. Only you and I know it, right? False. Since there are eight of you, there are eight secrets, obviously. So I found eight other people who attend our school and each told them one secret—one of yours. You get what I'm saying? For example, I told Elizaveta's secret to one person, and Francis' secret to one different person, and so on... And these other eight people will not hesitate to get your secret out.'"

Elizaveta looked like she was having a stroke. "What? What the hell? What do we do? Why would he tell other people our secrets?!"

"'Anyway, here's the fun part—if you can figure out the person who knows your secret and you confront them about it, they won't tell anyone. So you'll each need to talk to a different person. But if you can't figure it out by December 25th—Christmas—well, everyone will know. Now, have a long and happy life. The life I never got to live. Sincerely, Gilbert Beilschmidt."'

The mood of the room was tense, a storm getting ready to break.

"A-at least only one other person knows your secret," Antonio offered.

Mathias shook his head. "No! No one can know that secret. No one can know any of this. Shit. I never should have told Gilbert."

"What's the point of this?" wailed Elizaveta. "Is he trying to get us to prove we can figure it out or something?" Tears were streaming down her face, though no one dared laugh; she wasn't the only one crying. There was a sharp knock on the door, and Ivan shoved the paper into his pocket.

Ludwig, Gilbert's younger brother, opened the door. "Um, would you all care for snacks?"

"No," Ivan said. "No snacks. Please. Please, just give us a moment."

Ludwig nodded, his lips pressed together tightly, and turned on his heel, closing the door gently behind him.

"I suppose we each need to find our secret-keeper," Arthur said. "And we need to find them fast. We have to pinpoint them by the twenty-fifth, and today is the first. We have nearly a month, and Gilbert didn't exactly leave us a lot to go on."

"What secret was Gilbert talking about, with you guys?" Matthew questioned nervously.

Alfred laughed, short and sharp. "Dude. I'm absolutely withholding that information."

"Well, unless you can find your damn secret-keeper, you won't be 'withholding' much information," Mathias snapped.

"Wait," Ivan said. He had taken the crumpled letter out of his pocket and was examining it. "Oh, Gilbert left a post-script."

"Is it a hint?" Elizaveta asked.

"No... actually, he says that the secret-keepers are not operating as a group. Therefore, if you don't find your secret-keeper, your secret and yours alone will be spilled."

"What?" Alfred barked. "What does that mean?"

Arthur nodded. "I get it. For example, if Alfred is stupid enough that he cannot find his secret-keeper, but I manage to find mine, Alfred's secret will be shared, and mine will not."

"Whatever," Mathias snapped. "You all find your own secret-keepers. I'm working alone here." The blond stood up and stormed out of Gilbert's room, and thirty seconds later, the other seven students heard the front door close.

"Wow, he's friendly today," Elizaveta commented, but her tone of voice was dull, and everyone in the room was sharing that same feeling as the weight of the situation settled upon them: They had better find their secret-keeper, and fast.